


The Sundering Sea

by x_art



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, post season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 137,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stepping into the foamy surf, gasping at the force of it, the surprise of it—it had been breathtaking. Thomas had been that for him, his boundless sea, and he wasn’t ashamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lonely Sea-Girt Island

 

 

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Tortuga, West Indies  
22 February 1707_

_Thomas_

_I have word from Admiral Hennessey via Captain Bonner that Lt. McGraw has died at sea. He was murdered by the Pirate James Flint. Now you can put that Disgusting Business behind you._

_A. J. H._

_\------------------------------_

_Private_  
London, Sept 15 1708  
Wednesday P.M.

_My dearest Son,_

_No doubt you will wonder at my silence over the last 11 months. I have only recently learned that your Father has intercepted all of my correspondence to you and caused them to be destroyed. I have also only recently learned of your impending transfer from that dreadful place by way of the Virtuous Favor. My Dear Son, I understand that leaving for the New World is a drastic measure but I cannot help but be glad. Your Father and Dr. Forester have promised your new situation will be much improved and that you will no longer require the Phyzics that have kept you in calm spirits. I have your Father’s word that all your belongs including your Books will be returned to you. I know they will give you comfort. To that end, I am enclosing a tract from a new Publication by one of your favorites, Mr. Locke. I know you have questioned his merit, but I think, given your Circumstances, it will you do you much good. I have taken the liberty of writing to the Assembly at St. Philip’s to apprise them of your impending arrival. Being in the company of your dear Friend and the Church can only do you good. I pray at the time of our next meeting, your health and mind will be much improved. If you have the opportunity to respond to this note, please know that your Father and I will be leaving by way of the Maria Aleyne to review our holdings. Until then, I remain,_

_Your Loving Mother_

_\------------------------------_

_London  
April 1709_

_Thomas,_

_I regret that I am unable to obtain your release as soon as I had promised. The Court of Governors convened too late to review your case. Please be patient. I promise you will be free of that place as soon as possible._

_P. A._

_\------------------------------_

_Charles Town  
July 1710_

_My Dear Thomas_

_I had hoped to be present upon your arrival but unfortunately I must travel immediately for Williamsburg. Mr. Cameron, my Factor, will see you to your destination. He has everything you will need. I would say more but am unwilling to commit my personal thoughts to something as precarious as a letter. Suffice it to say that I am happy that soon an ocean will no longer divides us._

_Yrs Peter_

_\------------------------------_

_Charles Town  
July 1713_

_Thomas Martin  
Wadmalaw Island, Province of South Carolina_

_Dear Thomas_

_I am writing in the hopes this finds you well. My business in Yorktown is keeping me busy and this recent conflict between the Yamasee and the Colonies is not helping. The peace is very fragile and you will be well to heed Lt. Nicholas’s advice and keep to the house. I worry about you though it was I that suggested the retreat to Wadmalaw. Cameron tells me you have been out among the natives again. For your own sake, stop. I understand it is who you are, but they, like the coastal alligators I once warned you about, are a potential danger. They cannot be educated or reasoned with. If you anger them, they will harm you. They also carry any manner of diseases. Please keep your distance. As to the other matter, the reason why I left so precipitously, I do not know what to say other than I apologize. I meant no disrespect. You must know your happiness is my main concern. When I return Sunday the next, I will set out immediately for Wadmalaw. I have a gift I am sure you will enjoy._

_Yrs, P_

 

* * *

 

Book I  
The Lonely Sea-Girt Island  
1714

_Charles Town_  
  


 

A soft call interrupted his reading and he raised his head. The sun had lowered without his noticing and a hard spear of light streamed through the ring of oaks that girded the house and into the house via the western windows. The beam, a sharp gold-orange, blinded him for a moment and he winced against the brief pain.

The bird called again. It was a wood quail, the small cousin of his own, long-familiar, English version _._ Such a beautiful call. He stood and went to the windows that faced north and drew the draperies back. He saw her immediately, a hen with three chicks, scurrying for the cover of the wild snowballthat bordered the drive.

“Sir?”

He looked over his shoulder. Mrs. Cameron was at the study door, just out of reach of the beam of light. “Suppertime?”

She smiled. “Yes, sir. The days are getting longer. Soon, you’ll be dining during broad daylight.”

He let the curtain fall and picked up his book. He had lost his place though it wasn’t a problem; he knew where to find it as he hadn’t moved beyond page thirty-seven all week. “That will be pleasant.”

Mrs. Cameron bobbed her head as he passed by. She was older than he, possibly in her late fifties. She was dark-haired and handsome, though her skin was slightly weathered from the time spent out of doors. While she wasn’t close-lipped, he knew little of her life. She was born in Williamsburg but her family was originally from Dorsetshire. She had a pleasant accent and always smelled of orange water.

Her husband, on the other hand, was an entire puzzle. At least ten years his wife’s senior, Douglass Cameron was gruff to the point of rudeness. That was, when he spoke at all. He tended to go about his day with hardly a word spoken to anyone other than the boys that helped during the day. The only time Thomas heard him say more than two or three sentences in a row was when he was speaking to his wife.

But that wasn’t a problem, either. If his daily companions offered details of their lives, then courtesy would demand he do much the same. He imagined doing just that as he and Mrs. Cameron crossed the broad foyer together, their heels clicking in unison on the marble floor. If they knew, no doubt they’d offer up their resignations to Peter within the hour.

They’d crossed the foyer and entered the large salon.

He had spent most of his life in large, many-roomed homes, but there was something about this house that disturbed him. Perhaps it was the width and breadth of the rooms. Perhaps it was extravagant furnishings, the dark wood and silk-paneled walls and over-abundance of statues. The house was simply too grand, too ostentatious, too _much._

“When I was a young man,” he said absently, edging around the blue silk sofa, “I traveled to Majorca.”

“Yes?”

“It had started out as an escapade, a voyage to see the world, but turned into something else.”

“Yes?”

They had reached the small rear dining room. He paused at the door. “It was Peter’s idea, you see,” he added, then corrected himself, “Lord Ashe’s.”

“Was he an adventurous boy?”

He smiled, remembering. “Adventurous. Pigheaded, Determined to have his own way.” He gave her a look out of the side of his eyes. “Much like now.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He shrugged and asked her forgiveness silently. Contrary to what he’d thought after being brought to this place, there was no larger conspiracy at hand. It wasn’t Mrs. Cameron’s fault that he was in this house, in this situation; to engage her thus was mean-spirited not to mention rude. “I imagine you have to be determined to accomplish what he has in such a short time.” His attempted conciliation succeeded and she lost her look of confused suspicion.

“He is a great man,” she said as she gestured to the dining room.

He followed her unspoken command and went inside. They had set his place at the head of the table again. Without a word, he moved the service to the side; he was not the master here but no one ever seemed to remember. He took his seat and unfolded his napkin.

Mrs. Cameron gestured again, this time to the waiting servant, then turned to the door. She stopped and asked hesitantly, “On Majorca—what happened?”

He watched the girl ladle out his soup, saying without turning around, “Lord Ashe ordered the ship too close to shore and we were fired upon. Four of the men were killed outright and two more were crippled for life.” There was no reply; he twisted his lips in a brief smile and began to eat.

***

He finished his meal as the clock in the foyer chimed eight. He wiped his mouth, got up and followed the path made familiar these many months. He went first to the main drawing room and then outside to stand on the western terrace.

The sun was gone and the tipped half-moon was on the rise. There wasn’t much light, but there was enough for a stroll. He could use the north shore path. He hadn’t been feeling well and thus hadn’t visited his friends in over a week. The young girl, the one with the curious tattoos, must have delivered her baby by now.

But, no, he’d wait for the daytime. Though the old woman had never said anything specifically, he knew she didn’t like it when he visited after sundown. It made the tribe actively nervous and he didn’t want to upset them.

Still, it was a perfect night to be outside. It was warm with only a hint of the chill that would soon come in the small hours. The sky was a dense black that faded seamlessly to the dark blue horizon. All the northern stars were out; they dotted the sky with bright points of light. He could make out Ursa Major to the north and Leo to the east. He thought the faint red spot of light near the horizon must be Arcturus, but wasn’t sure.

Wadmalaw Island was so different from London. The skies were so clear, the landscape so very beautiful. Calm and restful, the island was a place made for reflection, for the building of ideas and thoughts.

It was a pity, therefore, that he was so very lonely that he sometimes thought he might go mad, as mad as they once accused him of being.

He wrapped his arms around his chest as the thoughts that were memories once more edged their way through his hard-won peace. It was a daily battle, this moment, one he was determined not to lose because if he did, what then? Give in to the perpetual fog of grief and fury, where hope and faith never had chance to take root? What choice did he have?

The past was the past was the past. It was done and gone, like his father and mother, like Miranda, like—

This time when Mrs. Cameron interrupted him with a slight cough, he turned gratefully. She stood on the threshold, a teacup in her hand. He smiled. “Is it that time already?”

“It is, sir.”

He went to her and took the tea with a hand that shook only slightly. He sipped it, by now used to the milky sweetness that almost hid the bitterness. He took another sip, feeling the relief from pain and worry. “I’ll be in soon.”

“Then I’ll say goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She left him and he sat down in one of the white chairs. He stretched out his legs and rested his head against the soft cushion, the teacup on his thigh. He closed his eyes, thankful that the other bitterness, the one that cut like a knife, had faded as well.

He did have a choice, of course. God gave every man that ability. He knew why he was on this island, what was in his daily tea, just as he knew that he could be the man he once was. He also knew he no longer had the strength for that change. He’d become a creature unfamiliar the moment he’d opened that last letter from his father. Dead in that instant, reborn in the next, he was now a different Thomas Hamilton, a husk that moved through each day as if he were a bird flying just above the earth’s surface, feet neither touching the ground nor wings the sky.

He breathed a sigh of laughter at his own analogy; so dramatic, so pathetic.

Still, not untrue, and he drank the rest of the tea in one gulp.

***

He retired to his rooms soon after and was untying his neck cloth when a knock came at the door. “Come in.”

The door opened and Cameron leaned in. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“A runner just came with news of Lord Ashe.”

“Yes?”

“His business in the north has concluded. He’ll be here tomorrow by sunset.”

“Very good.”

Cameron tipped his non-existent cap and closed the door.

Thomas looked at himself in the mirror, at his calm blue eyes. So much for peace.

***

By accident, not intent, he was not at the mansion when Peter arrived.

As always, sunrise brought a spurt of longed-for energy and he worked in the garden tending to the roses and the columbines he was so eager to have bloom. At eight, he put his shears down, and went inside to clean up. When he got downstairs, Mrs. Cameron had left a sack of bread, a jug of water and a few articles of women’s clothing on the hall table. He wanted to leave the clothing but didn’t want to insult her. He put it all in his satchel and set off.

The Indian encampment was at the western tip of the island, a little over five miles away. He arrived well before ten and was escorted in by one of the young men. He had learned not to speak to them directly; they were either too shy or too wary so he saved all his conversation for the elder.

He was given cautious greetings as he walked among the huts and drying racks. The girl had indeed given birth and was sitting by her hut, nursing the child. He made no move to approach, only nodded his congratulations. She smiled shyly in return.

The elder was where she always was—sitting on a bench outside the big round communal hut. She was watching two women scrape a deer hide clean of meat and debris. When she saw Thomas, she called out to one of the children playing nearby and they ran to get him a stump. When his seat was made ready, he sat and gave the elder the bread. She thanked him in Spanish and then returned to watching the women.

When he’d arrived on the island, he’d quizzed Peter on the local natives, learning only that they were named the Yamasee and were allied to the Crown. What he’d discovered on his own was that they were much like any other people—they fished, hunted, farmed and held ceremonies of a religious nature. They were quiet and friendly, with dark, broad faces. One of the oddest aspects of their culture, one he quite delighted in, was that the tribe was protected by the men but ruled by a woman. She made all the important decisions and it was she that he conversed with.

He had no idea how old she was but he thought she must have been born during the Spanish occupation as she spoke a fair smattering of Spanish. His French was better than his Spanish, but they made do exchanging pleasantries and information. He learned that her tribe had once called Florida home but had left for reasons he couldn’t quite understand. He thought it might have been a falling out with the Spanish and when he had asked for clarification, she was not able to say. He though her obfuscation was intentional but could hardly call her a prevaricator, especially when he was equally reticent when she asked after British ambitions. He enjoyed her company, though, and he thought she enjoyed his.

Today, they said nothing to each other and that was fine. There was something immensely peaceful about the Yamasee. They weren’t, he thought, a simple people but they lived simple lives and after his experiences over the last ten years, he craved simplicity.

At noon, the old woman rose, his signal to rise, as well. They said their goodbyes and he left, this time taking the southern path.

When he got to the estuary, instead of turning west and going around, he removed his shoes and stockings and crossed the shallow, clear creek. The black silt was cool and slippery and he wanted to laugh out loud at the pleasure of it. On the far bank, he rested on a hassock of grass to dry his feet and to read.

Peter had ensured the house was well stocked with all manner of literature, from plays and essays to novels and scientific journals. This one, though, came from another source, a slim volume given to him by Pastor Reynolds upon the realization they both shared a love of Francis Bacon.

The first time he had read _New Atlantis,_ Thomas had thought the ideals posited were admirable. Now, after having lived in the New World, the gilt of Bacon’s words had tarnished. Men had such a capacity for taking something innocent and corrupting it through the steady application of power, wealth and greed.

Still, that was somewhat the point of _New Atlantis,_ wasn’t it? To show that better worlds were possible and one only need imagine it to make it real?

Thinking what Peter would say to such a notion, Thomas opened the book and began to read.

***

He lost track of the time and the sun was far to the west when he came up for air. He jumped up, packed his things and put on his shoes.

This time, when he set out, he didn’t stroll but hurried, not failing to notice that the closer he got to the mansion, the heavier he felt. By the time he reached the whitewashed fence that made up the pasture’s southernmost boundary, he was tired and out of sorts.

He stopped in the shade of the tall beech and pulled out his pocket watch. Five o’clock. He’d told Mrs. Cameron he’d be back by two at the latest. Still, he didn’t move other than to stow the watch and get out the water. He took a drink.

From this distance, half hidden by the oaks, the mansion seemed small and insignificant, like the doll’s house Miranda once had as a child. Who would guess behind its tall white columns and green shutters lay a treasure in the way of paintings, sculptures and tapestries?

One of the things that had impressed him so very much about Carolina was the wild countryside that challenged every attempt at order. Peter had built the house in an effort to ape the customs of London, but to Thomas it only illustrated the ferocity of the New World.

Every week, Cameron would take a scythe to the lawn and within a few days, the grass would come back more vigorous than ever. The creeper that grew near the kitchen—if left to its own devices—would have long since taken over the entire house. Even the rivers and streams seemed bent on conquering the man-made paths and bridges built to confine and navigate them. The north bridge that crossed the Wadmalaw had been repaired and rebuilt three times in the short time that Thomas had been in residence. The last time, the river had risen in response to a great storm off the coast and simple swept the bridge away.

Growing up, he’d shared equal time between London and Ashbourne and was long used to order and tidiness. In his father’s gardens, in the houses themselves, everything had stayed in its proper place. Not so on Wadmalaw.

When he’d first arrived, he’d asked Peter to go for a walk, still in a fog but almost dazed by the riot of plant and wild life around them. Peter, of course, said yes, but was less than enthusiastic and made little response to Thomas’s comments.

He soon learned that Peter thought nothing of the wilderness and viewed the New World as a collection of resources to be consumed or passed onto the Crown without question or qualm. He never used to be so callous and Thomas, now remembering, idly wondered what had changed Peter. Was it just the product of age or was it living out here, so far from everything they’d once known?

A memory long buried struggled for freedom but Thomas rubbed his forehead, refusing it admittance. He was tired; he needed to get back.

***

When he trudged up the drive, he found Peter on the veranda with a full glass of wine in his hand, another on the table. Behind him, near the shutters and wearing his guns, stood Colonel Rhett.

Peter’s new pup lay at his feet, a lean black and tan hound he’d received as a gift from a grateful merchant. When the dog saw Thomas, he leaped up and bounded to meet him.

Thomas reached down and gave the hound’s ears a gentle tug though he kept his eye on Peter, ignoring Rhett altogether. “Have you named him yet?”

“No.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Not more than an hour ago.”

“How long will you stay?”

“A week, maybe more.” Peter sipped his wine. “I’d hoped to find you here.”

“I needed a walk.”

“Down to the river?” Peter gestured to the empty chair.

“No, down to the encampment.” Thomas gave the dog a pat and gently pushed him out of the way. He went up the stairs, then hung his satchel on the chair back and sat down. The dog followed and lay next to him, head on his shoe. “Just what I needed,” he said as he took a sip. The wine was good, dark and heady. “Is this new?”

Peter didn’t answer; instead he said evenly, “Where did you get those clothes?”

He looked down at his coarse linen breeches and waistcoat. “Mrs. Cameron made them up for me.”

“I’ve given you a half dozen more appropriate suits.”

“I know; I don’t want to damage them.”

“You’re not wearing your stockings.”

He glanced at his bare shins and ankles. The dog whined and looked up. “No, I am not.”

“You’re not wearing your stock or wig.”

He looked up at Peter’s wig, perfectly white except where sweat had dampened the edges. “It is too hot. And there’s no need.”

“And your hair? It’s been an age since it was trimmed.”

He ran his hand over his head, combing back the long strands, repeating more firmly, “There is no need.”

Peter sighed. “Thomas—”

“No,” he sighed as well, waving away Peter’s words, ashamed. He’d known that Peter would be upset at his choice of clothing and had chosen to bait him, a ploy that was too easy and beneath both of them. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling…” He looked around at his own Utopia, then shook his head.

“Cooped up?”

It had been months since his last attack of the overwhelming panic that had brought on a cold sweat and the need to escape the closeness of the house. “Something like that.”

“I’m told the pastor is paying weekly visits.”

“He comes when he can.”

Peter said nothing for a moment, and then he picked up his wine glass and immediately sat it down. “You haven’t been to Charles Town since Michaelmas.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’ve met someone, a Mrs. Henry Fielding, recently from London. She’s an accomplished musician and is hosting her first musical evening in a month’s time.” Peter touched the base of his wine glass with one long finger, then looked up. “Would you like to go?”

Thomas frowned. “Is this some sort of ruse?”

“No, Thomas,” Peter breathed a laugh. “It is not.”

He hesitated, thinking on motivations and consequences. “I no longer have the proper attire for an evening party.”

“In these backwaters, that hardly matters. Besides, I’m sure something of mine will fit you.”

He hesitated again, then asked softly with an eye on Rhett, “Is this a bribe?”

Peter’s cheeks and neck flushed; he glanced at Rhett and jerked his head. Rhett left without a word and Peter turned back to Thomas. “No. It is not.”

That kind of shamed ire spoke its own truth but it was best to be careful—lately he’d spied dark things lurking under Peter’s calm exterior. “Then, yes,” he said after a moment. “I would very much like to go.”

The tense moment over, Peter smiled and downed his wine in one smooth motion. “I’m going to wash off the dust. We’ll eat in an hour.” Peter snapped his fingers and said, “Come,” to the dog.

The dog looked up at Thomas as if asking permission, then rose and loped after.

***

Supper was a quiet affair. Thomas’s meals were always simple soups and stews taken in the small dining room—he preferred it that way. Peter preferred quite the opposite and they sat at the ten-foot table while the Camerons and the two girls served course after course. Leek soup, stuffed quail, a portion of tender lobster, carrots and potatoes—the Camerons outdid themselves, though Peter made no mention of it.

When dinner was over, Peter rose and Thomas followed. They went out to the patio that faced Charles Town and sat down. Cameron served brandy while Thomas looked in vain for Rhett and the dog.

Peter waited until they were alone before saying, “I have news for you.”

Brandy was never his favorite after-supper nightcap but he drank it anyway. “Yes?”

“I’ve been offered a post, an important one.”

“The governorship of Carolina?”

Peter hesitated, then raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

“That you were working towards it? Why else move here? Why leave your family in London?” He gave it a moment, then said softly, “Why else sequester me here, away from the gossips?”

Peter said nothing for the longest time. And then he muttered, “I can’t have you at the house in Charles Town. You know that.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t what I wanted, that place. You know that.”

“I know.”

“I would have gotten you out of there sooner, if I could. Your father was too powerful. I had to bide my time.”

“Yes.”

“I—”

“Peter,” he interrupted, hand raised. “We’ve been down this path before. Let’s not trod it again.” He softened his words with a smile. “What is the point?”

Peter hesitated, then nodded shortly.

He rose. “I’m tired from my walk. I’m going to bed.”

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“About Miranda…”

“Yes?” he asked again when Peter trailed off, not allowing hope to lighten his voice. “Has she written again? Have you heard from her?”

“No,” Peter said slowly. “I haven’t.”

“I wish I could speak to her just once.”

“And ruin her chances of any happiness? You know what would happen if her husband discovered her past.”

He nodded, his brief happiness gone. “He will take her children away.”

“Any man would. It’s too great a chance to take.”

He didn’t bother saying, _‘Not any man,’_ as he would never do such a thing. He and Peter had different ideas about marriage and wifely duties. “I understand.”

“I was only thinking that you don’t speak of her anymore…” Again, Peter trailed off.

“And you wonder why?”

“Yes.”

“Because her new husband gave her the children I never could. Because she’s content. Of all the lives my father destroyed, I am most happy that hers continues in peace. It’s all I ever wanted for her.”

“I see.” Peter looked out over the grounds. “And McGraw?”

“What of him?”

“Do you ever think of him?”

He wanted to laugh but was afraid of how it might sound. “No, never. Is that all?”

He waited; Peter liked to end their evenings by retiring to the study to listen to him read. Peter, or so he always said, preferred the sound of his voice above all others. But not tonight, it seemed.

“It is,” Peter said with a short nod. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

***

After opening all the windows in his bedroom, he took his nightly tea in a gulp, and then undressed slowly, one eye on the door, one ear out for footsteps on the thin Turkish carpet that covered the hall floor. But, Peter must have decided that discretion trumped intemperate lust and no knock on Thomas’s door came that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Nassau  
May_

_He wakes to the sound of quill on paper, a pleasant scritch-scratch that makes him smile. The morning air is cold but the bed is warm, made warmer by Thomas at his back. He sighs with happiness, letting Thomas know he’s awake without moving._

_The sound of writing ceases immediately. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Thomas is placing his writing things on the floor._

_The mattress shifts, the bedding slides. Thomas curls up close._

_“Shouldn’t you be off?” he mutters, stretching out so there is not a fingerwidth of space between them. “You have that appointment with Webb.”_

_Thomas kisses his ear. “I cancelled last night before I got here.”_

_“Is that wise? He’s sure your zeal for this undertaking is waning. He told me himself.”_

_Thomas laughs lightly. “And who is to blame for that.” He pushes James’s hair aside and kisses the back of his neck._

_“Certainly not me, though your father would probably say different. I’m the one—” With a groan, he arches back. Thomas has reached the spot behind his ear, the spot that always sweeps rational thought away._

_“No more talk of meetings and responsibilities?” Thomas whispers._

_“No more.”_

_Thomas urges him to his stomach, then covers him. “No more talk of my father?”_

_He presses into the mattress, stretching out his arms. He loves this, loves the weight of Thomas holding him down. “No more.”_

_Thomas gently slips a knee between his legs and he spreads himself wide, pulse gathering speed._

_“Are you in any pain from last night?” Thomas asks, stroking his flank and thigh._

_“Never,” he answers, reaching for the pot on the bedside table. He holds it up. Thomas takes it from him._

_There’s a blank moment while he waits almost breathless and then Thomas touches him, cool, slick fingers caressing his hip and backside and then—_

_His thoughts scatter at the feeling of Thomas within him, gazing on the ocean-colored wall only he’s not seeing the wall as much as—_

“Captain?”

He looked away from window carefully, not wanting Gates to know he’d startled him. “Yes?”

Gates gave him a look that said he hadn’t succeeded. “Just wanted you to know that the _Adamant_ is here.”

He got to his feet. “Good. If anyone asks, you don’t know where I am, yes?”

Gates nodded slowly. “Yes.”

***

When the girl came towards him with the pitcher of ale he waved her away. He’d been sitting in chair for three hours and might have to sit another three—getting drunk wouldn’t do anything but give him a headache and he had enough of those.

Across the room, Eleanor and Bryson were still conversing. Probably chatting about the latest development with her bastard of a father. Eleanor looked up and met James’s glance. She asked a silent question; he answered just as silently to the negative. She frowned and went back to whatever Bryson was saying.

Her silent concern, though valid, only worsened his mood and when the girl came by once more he almost snarled at her.

***

Another hour passed. He’d had enough and was getting ready to leave when a figure slipped through the door and came towards him, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Almost like the specter people thought him, Raymond Stocks took a seat opposite and removed his hat.

He’d been fighting again if the black eye and split lip were any indication, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. It always amazed James that a man so adept at subterfuge was so equally unable to avoid fistfights. He’d thought at first it was because Stocks, with his fair hair and pretty eyes, had the kind of looks that attracted the wrong sort. When he got to know Stocks better, he’d realized that Stocks’s pugnaciousness was a kind of cover, an effort to hide that same beauty. And that he just liked to fight.

“How is the other fellow?” James asked, signaling to the girl. She came over, hesitation in her every step.

Stocks grinned. “You mean ‘fellows,’ don’t you? They’re fine; a little worse for wear and tear.” He glanced up at the girl as she poured the ale and murmured, “Thank you.” She nodded and hurried off. “She’s terrified; what have you been saying to her?”

“Nothing.”

“You know, James, if you treat people better, you might get more from them.”

He hated that Stocks refused to call him by anything other than his given name as much as he hated the continual advice and he nodded pointedly at Stocks’s lip.

Stocks just winked and said, “Touché.” He took a sip of ale, then sighed and sat back in his chair. “That’s good.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Somewhat. I’ll eat later.”

“How was the trip?”

“Difficult. The _Sovereign_ was out and about; she came for us but we gave her the slip.” Stocks took another sip of beer. “Fucking Hume.”

Stocks hated the Royal Navy more than James did, if that were possible. Though he’d never asked, he’d assumed it had something to do with Stocks’s physical assets—he knew several admirals by name that would never have let Stocks alone if he’d been under their command. “And Port Royal?”

Stocks lost his air of congeniality. “I waited but Vasquez never showed. Everyone thinks there’s some big to-do in Seville and he was recalled.”

“What do _you_ think?”

Stocks’s smile reappeared at James’s undisguised blandishment. “I think he’s in Veracruz, waiting on de Ubilla.”

Heart thudding, he leaned forward. “De Ubilla is in Seville, overseeing the finishing touches on new Man o’ Wars.” When Stocks didn’t say anything, James added, “Isn’t he?”

“A courier ship out of Seville was intercepted only last week. Among the many letters was one from de Ubilla to Vasquez telling him of the fleet’s impending arrival. The Casa de Contratación ordered him to set sail immediately. He should arrive within the month, sans new ships.”

“Meaning the fleet will only be lightly guarded.”

Stocks nodded. “And we both know what that means. Anything can and will happen at sea.”

He sat back. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long; if true, it changed everything. “It’s almost June. Even if he arrived at Veracruz this week, it’s unlikely he’ll have time to re-fit and set sail anytime soon.”

“If the gold is ready to be shipped. My man in Merida tells of continual problems in the mines. The last mule train was over a month late.”

Even better. “When will you know for sure?”

Stocks smiled wryly. “I’ve someone en route for Veracruz but he won’t return for another month. This has to be done delicately.”

James stroked his beard. “So, we wait.”

Stocks finished the last of his ale. “You can wait; I’m heading out there in the morning.” He signaled for the girl. “In the meantime, I’ve a room at the King’s Arm if you’d like to join me for a late supper.”

Stocks’s tone was neutral, as if he were asking after the weather but James wasn’t fooled. Each time they met, Stocks made his overture, each time James declined. He always told himself it was because he was too busy or not in the mood, the real reason being he was afraid of what would happen if he said yes. Epiphanies and discoveries led to the most uncomfortable realizations and he had time for neither. “Thank you, but no. I need to get back to the _Walrus_.”

“James,” Stocks sighed with no sign of anger. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

He snorted at that. “And neither do you.”

“That, my friend, is why I keep asking.”

He frowned and dug a small pouch out of his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Let me know if anything happens in the meantime.” He stood up. He glanced over at Eleanor; Bryson was gone and she was watching them with speculation.

Stocks took the coins and followed his gaze. “Miss Guthrie is looking particularly fine tonight.”

“Maybe she’ll take you up on your offer.”

“Maybe she will.”

He left, knowing both were watching him, not caring much that they were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Wadmalaw Island_

Mrs. Fielding, as it happened, _was_ an accomplished musician and so was her accompanist, a young man who played the violin with precision and verve. As the last strains of the duet faded, Thomas leaned back and sighed.

At the start of the evening his discomfort had been acute. He was no longer accustomed to wearing a formal suit and the satin and silk were too tight, too confining. His wig was equally uncomfortable, even with his new hair cut. Worse yet, though the crowd totaled no more than forty, he had not been able rid himself of the notion that everyone knew of his past, that everyone had already judged him and found him wanting. It was an unhappy surprise, this newfound sense of shame. There was no reason for it—Peter hadn’t used his real name, nor given any details of his situation. At one point, he was so nervous that he thought of making his excuses but then Mrs. Fielding played the first chords of the Purcell duet and all his discomfort drifted away.

He listened in growing pleasure—it had been far too long since he had heard such beautiful music, far too long since he’d had the opportunity to indulge his auditory senses.

“Did I not tell you?” Peter murmured under the sound of the applause.

“You did.” Peter was leaning close, almost pressing against him. He resisted the urge to move away. “You were right. She is very good.”

“She studied under a student of Campion’s,” Peter added. “She would have gone far if she were a man.”

“Indeed.” What a shame that such a natural aspect would limit that talent. His world was so foolish in so many ways.

“I’ve told her a bit about you; she is eager for an introduction.”

“Yes?” he asked absently, caught on the realization that he felt no part of the world within which he’d been raised. He was still part of the human race, still God’s child, but no more than that. “What did you tell her?”

“Only that you are well read and love music.”

“I’m sadly behind in the former but the latter is certainly true. Lead on.”

Peter didn’t wait for Mrs. Fielding’s admirers to dissipate; he pushed through without making it seem as if he were pushing through. When they stood before Mrs. Fielding, she greeted them with a smile. Except for her bright eyes, she was of plain face and figure. She wore no wig and had what seemed to natural red hair that gleamed in the candlelight.

“Lord Ashe,” she said, hand out. “I am so happy you could join us.”

Peter bent low and kissed her hand. “It is I that am happy. That was beautiful.”

“Thank you for not mentioning the D flat.” She glanced at Thomas. “This your guest? The one you were telling me about?”

Peter gestured, just the tips of his fingers lightly touching Thomas’s back. “Yes, this is my friend, Thomas Martin, my gentleman of the wild.”

Thomas, in the middle of bending to kiss Mrs. Fielding’s hand, looked up with a startled laugh. “Pardon me?”

Mrs. Fielding made a little moué. “Don’t be alarmed. Those were my words, not his. Peter has been telling me that you have been unwell and are only just recovered while sequestered on his primitive island. The silly joke was mine and mine alone.”

He smiled as he finished his kiss. Evidently, Peter had been handing out more information than the volume of his reading. “I suppose ‘sequestered,’ is an appropriate word though I feel less a gentleman than an explorer.”

She tipped her head. “It is so very new and wild, is it not? I only just arrived but I’m already taken with how much it is _not_ like home.” She looked around. “It has the trappings of home, the _things,_ but the moment you step outside, everything is different. It is quite frightening and yet so invigorating.”

He smiled down at her. “Mrs. Fielding, I have a feeling you and I are destined to be friends.”

She touched his arm. “I, too, but before I forget, someone…” She looked over her shoulder, “…would very much like to meet you. Lewis?” she called out, raising her voice slightly.

Surrounded by his own admirers, the violinist turned at her call and nodded.

As they waited for the violinist to join them, Mrs. Fielding murmured, “I must warn you that I’ve been telling Lewis about you and he’s fascinated. He’s young, enthusiastic and more than a little in love with the frontier.”

Thomas smiled blandly, a spark of anxiety warming his throat.

The young man joined them and Mrs. Fielding made the introductions.

Lewis Augustin Bader was Thomas’s height with natural dark-hair, bright blue eyes and a light accent. He was German-born by a father who had made his fortune in the gunpowder trade and a mother who was the daughter to a baronet.

Thomas learned all that in the space of a moment and was given no chance to respond with anything other than a nod until Bader asked, “May I come visit you on your island, Mr. Martin? I would so love to see where you live and meet your savages.”

He avoided Peter’s eye as he said, “They’re not mine and hardly savages, Mr. Bader.” The heat and closeness of the room was beginning to bother him. The street-side French doors were a few paces away; he could step outside for a moment, then return and no one would be the wiser.

“Please, call me ‘Lewis,” Bader insisted, coming closer. “I meant no insult or disrespect. I just find it so very fascinating.”

Mrs. Fielding hid a small smile behind her fan but Peter was staring at Bader with a speculative look that Thomas recognized.

“All is forgiven, Lewis,” he answered; what else could he say? “If you have a chance to meet them, I’m sure you would find them as human as I.”

“May I visit, then?”

“I—” Thomas began, unsure of how to dissuade Bader’s interest when he was interrupted by a manservant carrying a tray of wine. After they’d all taken a glass, it was Mrs. Fielding who gently said, “We mustn’t forget, Lewis, that Mr. Martin has been ill. He may not have the strength for such a visit.”

Under the power of Bader’s crestfallen demeanor, Thomas tried not to laugh. He’d walked ten miles the day before, and five the day before that. But, he had to maintain Peter’s lies so he schooled his expression to one of profound regret and tried to look wan. The latter, unfortunately, probably wasn’t as hard as it should have been.

“Would you at least take a glass of wine with me on the porch?” Lewis said, hopefully. “I am parched and would hear of your adventures.”

Good manners insisted he consent and he nodded to Peter and Mrs. Fielding, then gestured vaguely.

The porch, protected on two sides by the house and lit by two high sconces, was dark and cool. He went to the balustrade and looked out.

The Fieldings’ house sat two streets behind the harbor; he could just make out the rough mound that was Coffin Island and beyond, the silvery black Atlantic Ocean.

“I love the water,” Bader murmured at Thomas’s side. “It is so vast, so unknowable.”

“It is,” Thomas agreed absently.

“Are you fond of the water, Mr. Martin? I think you must be, given that you live on an island.”

“No, I am not particularly fond of the ocean.”

“Why ever not? Food, means of transportation, livelihoods—the ocean gives us so much.”

He shrugged, the truthful words slipping from his lips before he could stop them, “It also takes so much.”

Bader paused, then said, “You lost someone to the sea?”

He gave a brief tip of his head.

Bader frowned. “Tonight seems my night for speaking out of turn.”

He turned. “No,” he said, this time with true contrition. “I am not good company these days and have forgotten how to act.”

“It is I,” Bader said with a wave of his glass. “I push too hard when I’m fascinated by something.” He hesitated, then murmured, “Or someone.”

Delicately, Thomas sharpened his gaze, seeing what he hadn’t before: the indirect yet direct evaluation, the faint sheen of sweat on Bader’s upper lip he’d taken for exertion but was something else entirely. “Mr. Bader—”

“ _‘Lewis,’”_ Bader interrupted with a soft smile.

“Lewis. I am not the man you think I am. I—”

He was interrupted once more, this time by a voice at the door. They turned as one to find Peter standing at the threshold, one hand on the frame.

“Is everything all right?” Peter asked, looking from Thomas to Bader.

“Yes, it’s fine,” Thomas answered mildly, refusing the instinctive reaction of stepping away from Bader. “I was just explaining why I’m unable to have visitors.”

Peter didn’t speak for a moment and then he said, “The house is quite far. In fact, we should be going.”

“Yes,” Thomas said with a regretful smile that he hoped didn’t appear as false as it felt. “Thank you for the pleasure of your music.” He held out his hand.

Lewis grasped it, holding too long. “If you’re sure…” He glanced at Peter.

“I am sure.” He withdrew his hand from Lewis’s grip. “Though I would have liked to introduce you to my native friends.”

“We are giving another performance on Saturday the next. Perhaps you will be able to attend?”

Peter was watching them with a cool gaze. “Perhaps,” Thomas said, as he turned to the doors. Peter followed, a silent shadow.

The crowd was still in full force, still laughing and talking animatedly. He was not familiar with the goings on of Charles Town society but evenings such as these had to be a rare thing, to be savored and treasured.

All of a sudden his energy flagged. He wanted to be alone, or as near as he could get, away from noise and lights and people. He didn’t look over his shoulder as he murmured, “Was that a dodge or are we really leaving?”

“We’re leaving.”

“Good.”

Across the room, Mrs. Fielding caught his eye. He should say goodbye to her in person but even that seemed too taxing.

“Don’t worry,” Peter said at his elbow. “I’ll say our farewells and meet you downstairs.”

He should be disturbed that Peter had guessed his thoughts, but he wasn’t. “Thank you.”

***

The walk to the jetty was thankfully short; Rhett and the two boatmen were waiting by the dory, lanterns at bow and stern.

“This is nice,” Thomas murmured, as they pushed off, watching the moon’s reflection on the river’s surface.

“You enjoyed the evening?”

“I did.”

“But you’re tired.”

“Hmm,” he said absently. “I’ve become a mushroom that cannot stand the light of day. The light of day, in this case, being a party.”

Peter snorted, as Thomas knew he would. “You are no mushroom. You are just unused to more than a few people at a time.”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you like to go to the next performance? I believe they will be trying a new piece by Coperario.”

“We’ll see.”

Peter opened his mouth, then glanced at Rhett, sitting silently before them. He said no more for the rest of the trip.

***

It was unfortunate, Thomas thought later, that he let down his guard the minute he sat foot on the jetty.

It was the freedom of the island—it made him feel as if he could breathe again. Two miles to the east were the things he once craved but craved no longer—society, conversation, life. On the island he was no one, and if he was no one, he was free to be anyone. It was an interesting shift in perspective and as they started up the long road that led to house, he began to hum under his breath.

They had reached the halfway point, the white fence on the left, the trees and river on the right, when Peter said, “Colonel Rhett? Please make sure that Cameron has stabled the livestock.”

Rhett bowed his head. “Very good, my lord.”

Peter waited until Rhett was some distance away before saying, “Are you angry at me?”

“For what?”

“For cutting off that young pup back there.”

He looked sideways. “Lewis? No, I’m not angry. He was just as Mrs. Fielding said: enthusiastic.”

“He’s enthusiastic about the wrong things.”

“What are the right things?”

“Not bothering you with his affections would be the main one.”

He smiled into the darkness. “So now you’re my chaperone?”

“I’m not anything of the kind. I’m the man that cares for you. I’m the man that has done everything he could to help you.”

“Peter—”

“I gave you a way out of that place.”

“Let’s not do this.” They were standing in the shadow of the beech. Peter was just  a grey figure in the grey night.

“I saved you.”

Gone was the sense of freedom and release; in its place was the familiar anger only this time he gave it free rein. “You ‘ _saved’_ me?” he repeated, turning on Peter. “How did you _save_ me? By doing nothing when they came for me and saying not a word?”

“I—”

“Miranda was standing there crying, screaming, but you said nothing!”

“I told you there was nothing I could do.” Peter grasped his arms. “I _told_ you.”

Peter’s breath smelled of wine and tobacco. Thomas jerked away. “Yes, you told me. Over and over. You could do nothing. It was only out of long negotiation and the good of your heart that you got me out of that place. I understand, I truly do.”

“It _was_.”

“Then what is this?” He gestured to Peter and then himself. “What was last month and the month before, ad infinitum? Coming to me in the dark with hopes that I would forget the past and welcome you with open arms?” Each time it had happened, he’d woken to find Peter sitting on the bed, tentative hand on his thigh or knee asking, ‘ _Please. Thomas, please.’_

“I want to help you.”

“No,” he shook his head slowly, not needing light to see that Peter’s had flushed a dark red. “You want to fuck me.”

It felt good, the coarse word on his tongue, felt good the way Peter drew a sharp breath and glanced at the house. “They cannot hear us,” Thomas added coolly, “but do not fool yourself into thinking they do not know.”

Peter clenched his jaw, then whispered, “I just want it to be like it was. Before Miranda, before _—”_

“Peter.”

“Do you remember how it was?”

“We were little more than boys.”

“We were old enough to know what we were doing. We loved each other.”

“Yes,” he said patiently. “We did. Even now I hold some measure of love for you. But not like that.” He shook his head again, this time firmly. “Not anymore.”

Peter’s expression stilled, his whole body stilled. “It’s because of him, isn’t it. The minute he walked onto the scene, you could see only him and no one else. Even now, he’s between us.”

For a wound so old, the pain was surprisingly sharp. “It has nothing to do with James.”

“It has everything to do with him. You’re still ashamed.” Peter raised his hand. “If you would but give me a chance, I could help you forget him, help you forget that shame.”

The moment froze, crystalized; he could hear his own heart pound, feel the pulse of it in his neck and temples. “Peter,” he said very carefully, “I was never ashamed. Of me, of James. Of _us._ You do realize that, yes?”

Peter frowned. “Then, why are you here? Why let yourself be hidden away?”

“I stay here because I must,” he answered slowly, feeling every word, every syllable leave his mouth and become real. “I stay here because I am paying the price for my inaction.” He stepped forward again until he was right up against Peter, chest to chest. It would only take a small movement to bring his lips to Peter’s. “Do you not understand? I _stay_ here because I let him be taken by that _monster_ and I did _nothing_ to stop it!” His voice was too loud and he backed away to tread a small circle in the dirt in an attempt to outrun the pain.

“What could you have done?” Peter shook his head and made a sharp gesture of frustration. “You were incarcerated!”

“I could have gotten out. After the first year, they unchained me from that wall, so even with the locked doors and the laudanum they were giving me daily, I’m sure I could have gotten out. I might have even been in time.”

It was the first time he’d said the words aloud and they should have blistered the air about him, so bitter were they. When Peter made to touch him again, he shook him off. “I should have tried. James died in pain and agony and I should have tried.” The fury and grief began to ebb and he was suddenly so very, very tired. He scraped off his wig. “That is why I stay, Peter. This false paradise,” he said, nodding, taking in the land, the water, “this is my hair shirt.”

Peter said nothing for a moment and then he said, “Being here with me is a penance?”

“Of a sort.”

“I’ve waited for you, given you a home, money, clothes. Even jewels.”

“The latter of which I will not wear,” Thomas reminded softly but Peter went on as if he hadn’t heard.

“Do you remember your condition when I came to get you? You hadn’t seen the sun in months; you could barely walk.”

“I remember.”

“Those cold baths, those exercises. They had bled you so much your skin was whiter than my sheets!”

“I know.”

“I saved you!”

“Yes, you did, Peter,” he agreed quietly. “But you saved me for your own purposes, not mine.”

Peter ran his hand down his jaw as if equally exhausted. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m tired of this pretense. Because I’m tired of following this same path every few months.”

They were both silent for a long moment and then Peter said, “I could force you, you know.”

Here it was, Peter’s sly darkness, hungry, vicious, waiting to be set free. “You could. My strength is not what it once was.”

“No one would know,” Peter added, looking off into the distance as if he hadn’t heard Thomas. “No one would help you.”

He should be afraid but couldn’t quite muster the energy for it. “What is stopping you?”

Peter looked at him. “I am not a monster, Thomas.”

“Then you must leave this alone, leave _me_ alone.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.”

Peter hesitated for the longest time. “You truly mean this? There is no chance things might be different?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go in now.” Thomas gestured to the house and took a few steps. “No doubt Mrs. Cameron has my tea waiting.”

“Yes.”

Peter was still standing in the shadows, straight and tall. “Peter? I _am_ sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have been so blunt.”

“It is all right.”

He bowed his head and was walking away when Peter stopped him with a soft, “Thomas? About James…”

He turned. “Yes?”

But Peter just stood there for a long moment, staring at him for the longest time. And then he gave an odd half-smile and said, “Never mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then, goodnight.”

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

***

When he went down to a late breakfast, tired but determined to make the best of the situation, Peter and his hound were gone. He heard nothing for two days until a messenger came by horse with a folded piece of paper.

Steeling himself to read the request for his immediate expulsion from the manor, he opened the sheet. It wasn’t any such thing. It was a simple announcement saying that the interim council had decided: Carolina’s new governor was to be Lord Peter Ashe.


	2. The Watchmen on the Morning

Book II  
The Watchmen on the Morning  
1715

_........................................_

_Nassau_  


By the time Miranda returned from upstairs, the wine he’d ordered had arrived. She sat down with a sigh. He poured her a glass, then pushed it towards her. “How is she?” he asked as he filled the second glass.

“Exhausted, terrified, confused.” She sipped her wine, then added, “Right now she’s asleep.”

“Is she going to be up for the journey?”

Miranda nodded. “I believe so. She just needs a few days to get her bearings.”

“Ned Low—he didn’t rape her, did he?”

She shook her head. “I asked her very delicately but no, he never touched her. Neither, apparently, did Captain Vane’s men.”

“Good.” One of Eleanor’s servants, a boy by the name of Joshua, was moving about the room, clearing the tables.

“And you, how are you?”

“Exhausted,” he answered, then added, “terrified, confused,” just to make her smile.

“Fool,” she said fondly, her smile fading. “We’re going to have to be careful, you know.”

“I know.”

“She’ll need to stay with me the entire time.”

“You’ll both bunk with me but the men won’t bother her, nor you.”

“They better damn well not.”

He smiled. “They think you’re a witch, you know.”

She raised her eyebrow. “That should surprise me but it doesn’t. I believe the townspeople think the same.”

“Then it’s just as well we’re going.”

“I’ll need to return.” At his look of inquiry, she added, “For my belongings. I don’t want to leave them for the neighbors.”

“Eleanor can help with that. I’ll ask her to pack everything up once we send word.”

“Speaking of,” Miranda said, looking down at her wine. “She has given us a room upstairs. I was hoping you might share it with me.”

Her meaning was plain and he shook his head with regret that was only part pretense. “I have to return to the beach. The men will need an update and I need to find my maps of Charles Town.”

Her gaze sharpened. “This won’t be a trap, James. You aren’t going to need a bolt-hole.”

“The times I haven’t needed a bolt-hole were only because I already had one.”

She gave him that half smile that said his wit was lacking, the rose. “I should go up in case Abigail wakes.”

“Goodnight.”

He watched as she went upstairs, heard the steps creak and fugitive memory returned and he was back in London, back in the house as he…

_…climbs the dark-stained staircase, taking care to avoid the third step from the top because that’s the one that always creaks. When he reaches the landing, he turns to the left and makes his way down the hall. It is not quite five and the lamps are unlit and the passageway is dim, almost gloomy. If he were given to wild imaginings, he’d think it the perfect place for a spectral appearance._

_He’s smiling as he knocks on the door, second to the right._

_“Come.”_

_He opens the door and steps in._

_This room faces west and the windows frame the grey misery of the day. He doesn’t have time for sadness or depression: Thomas is at his desk, sitting in a warm pool of gold light. He’s been working and is wearing only breeches, shirt and stockings. His coat and waistcoat are tossed carelessly on the bed, his shoes at its foot. The writing has been hard going, by the look of his hair—it’s sticking up, tufted and ruffled, which means he’s been taking out his frustrations on his hair._

_“Is it too late?”_

_Thomas looks around, then smiles. He puts his quill down. “It will never be too late for you. Did you see Miranda?”_

_“No. I’m told she’s getting ready for the opera.”_

_“Then, come,” Thomas orders softly, holding out his hand._

_He closes and locks the door, then goes to Thomas. “You are filthy, my love,” he murmurs in jest, leaning over to kiss the tips of Thomas’s ink-stained fingers, one by one._

_“Perhaps you should make me clean.”_

_When he leans down to kiss Thomas’s lips, he’s—_

A loud bang startled James out of his reverie. He looked up only to see that it was the boy, clumsily rolling a barrel across the floor.

He finished his wine, then stood and made his way to the door.

***

It was just shy of six bells by the time he finished reviewing the maps and making his calculations. Several of the crew had come and gone, each with their own worries about the venture. He’d answered their questions calmly but succinctly, not giving them time to worry over the details. For the most part, they’d listened without argument.

He closed his books and leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, staring out at the dark ocean. The crew was right to be afraid. There were so many things that could stop them from seeing any fruits of their labors—the weather, the Charles Town harbor defenses. Peter Ashe.

In the past, whenever he’d been reminded of Peter, he’d sneered internally and forgot him the next moment. Peter had turned into a bastard, corrupt and vindictive, the kind he’d warned Thomas about so long ago.

Was it truly possible for Peter to remember him as the man he’d once been? The man who’d had hopes and dreams for a prosperous Nassau? It would take a great amount of faith, if so—Peter was one of the worst of them, hanging pirates on a monthly basis just because he could. Would he ever be able to see James other than what he currently was?

In James’s experience, men rarely had those moments of clarity, but perhaps Miranda was right. Perhaps the time to end this was at hand. Perhaps Peter was the way through.

“Captain?”

He looked up. Billy was striding towards him over the soft sand. “Yes?”

“Have you seen Captain Hornigold?”

“I imagine he’s off somewhere licking his wounds.”

Billy shook his head. “He’s not. I can’t find Mr. Dufresne, either.”

“You think they’re together?”

“Robertson thought he saw them on the old east road.”

“Robertson has been drunk for two days.”

“Still, it could be a big problem. Mr. Dufresne has it out for you.”

He rubbed his beard and then shook his head. “If they are in league, they have only a handful of men to aid them. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Billy hesitated, then nodded.

“Is there more?” James asked.

“We haven’t heard from Vane.”

“He’s holed up in the fort, also licking his wounds.”

“Are you sure?”

He rubbed his beard. “Billy, I’m tired—when we return from Charles Town we can worry about Vane.”

Billy didn’t say a thing except give James that look. He backed away.

“Wait,” James said, his conscience getting the better of him. “I’ve been thinking about your suggestion, about Mr. Scott as the new quartermaster. When you get time, begin your canvas and see what the men say.”

Billy nodded and left.

James watched him go, thinking about Hornigold, Dufresne and Vane, three problems that had been bothering him for far too long. If Miranda was right, they wouldn’t be a problem much longer.

He leaned forward and snuffed out the lantern.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Wadmalaw Island_

_For what are man and woman but children of nature, bent and shaped by experience, trained to unnatural law? For this reason, I say that every man or woman, be they the product of so-called civilization or not, are children of—_

“Sir?”

_—the universal parent which is—_

“Sir? You have a visitor.”

Thought interrupted soundly, Thomas paused in his writing. “Who is it?”

“Pastor Reynolds.”

He nodded absently. At least he’d gotten the crux of his philosophical equation down on paper. He’d been struggling with it for days now, and it was a minor triumph to have finished even a few paragraphs. He sighed, contented, and leaned back in his chair and looked around.

Mrs. Cameron was standing at the door of the small study. She’d been making supper and was still wearing an apron, something she rarely forgot to remove outside the kitchen.

“Is it the second Tuesday already? Please show him to the drawing room.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned away.

“Mrs. Cameron?”

She paused. “Sir?”

“Is there anything the matter?”

Her lips bent in a smile. “I’m fine, sir.”

She left before he could inquire further and he stood up slowly.

The last few months had seen a change in the Camerons. While not friendly, they had become more congenial, more open. He supposed it was the lack of their master’s presence for Peter had never returned to the island, only sending his proxy when there came matters of the estate. It had changed things in the house, in himself, as well. He felt more at ease, more able to think clearly. The treatise he was writing was a case in point—he hadn’t been able to think of doing anything like it before.

This distraction on the part of the Camerons was different, though, new. They were worried about something, only what that something was, he had no idea because the few times he’d asked, they’d brushed off him off with polite non-answers.

He was still pondering the subject when he got to the drawing room. Jonathan was in his usual seat by the window; when he saw Thomas, he got up and held his hand out.

“Thomas,” Jonathan said with a smile, taking Jonathan’s hand in both of his. “You’re looking better.”

He made a small face as they sat down. “It was nothing. A passing affliction.” One brought on by three days of dreary rain and the news that Peter—in a particularly cruel act of barbarism—had hanged two pirates in one afternoon in the public square. When Jonathan had called, Thomas had been in a black mood resulting from a frightening dream where he was back in Bedlam and at the hands of Jenkins. “I’m well recovered.”

“I’m glad it was nothing more.”

He smiled; if any of his melancholy had remained, it would have disappeared. Jonathan and his easy ways made him happy.

The son of a minor baron, Jonathan Reynolds had dark hair that glinted blue in the sun, clear brown eyes and even, pleasing features. He’d recently gotten his hair cut; a band of pale skin divided his hairline from his tanned forehead, a testament to his duty to his flock for he was a little careless when it came to his own upkeep and often he visited Thomas without hat or coat. Such carelessness was a long cry from the Jonathan he’d met almost a year ago. That Jonathan had been overly formal and stiff, intelligent and well educated but still with that edge of upper-class superiority. Time, and ministering to the colonists had softened him into something quite likeable.

“It was nothing, truly,” he said, leaning over to open the tall windows. “I’m fine. And…” He looked over as Mrs. Cameron came in with their tea, “…very hungry. Perfect timing as always, Mrs. Cameron.”

She gave him a brief smile and set the tray down, then quickly poured the tea and uncovered the sandwiches. “Would there be anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll be off to finish supper.”

Jonathan waited until she was gone, then said, “Is she all right? She missed Sunday services.”

“I thought the same thing.” He picked up his teacup. “What is the news in town?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” Jonathan said as he reached for his tea. “Everyone seems to be anxious. The _Valorous_ and the _Elizabeth Anne_ were to arrive last week but they haven’t been seen. Prices on tea and clothing have risen to an all-time high. To make matters worse, Governor Ashe is sentencing three more pirates tomorrow. You know what that will bring.”

He nodded thoughtfully—unrest, fugitive anger with no real target, escalation and the need for more retribution. If only…

“That makes twelve this month.”

Thomas looked up, startled. “Twelve? I understood it was three.”

Jonathan shook his head slowly. “Twelve this month, ten last month. You didn’t know?”

“No.” he said slowly, “I did not. What is he thinking?” he murmured absently.

“Perhaps Lord Ashe is using these public hangings as a means of assuring the town that they have nothing to fear,” Jonathan said, looking everywhere but at Thomas. “Perhaps this will be the last of it.”

Such mild censure for such a hideous act and he said dryly, “I appreciate your discretion, Jonathan, but Lord Ashe is no friend of mine. Not anymore. You can talk as you will.”

His appraisal had been accurate: with a relieved sigh, Jonathan leaned forward and said, “You can tell me as you were close to Lord Ashe—what do you think is going on?”

He set his cup down. “Peter thinks pirates are criminals and that this show of force will act as a deterrent but I wonder at the timing.”

“You think he’s only doing this to challenge the authority of the Lords Proprietors.”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility. Having Berkeley question his management over the expansion of the harbor must have been difficult. He’s not one to take criticism lightly, even if it comes from one above him in station.” They were both silent a moment and then he added, “One thing is certain, Peter is acting in his own interests.”

“He does seem to have changed this last year,” Jonathan said. “I had assumed it was his nomination to the post. Governorship of such a volatile region would be difficult, at best.”

“If Peter had indeed caused the death of twenty-two men in the space of two months, no matter their circumstance, then something darker is at work here.”

“Might you visit him and ask him directly?”

“No, those days are past.”

Jonathan said nothing. And then he straightened up and said, “I’ll see if I can glean any information from Mr. Hollingsworth or Mr. Carter.”

“Carefully, yes? Don’t put yourself in any danger.”

Jonathan smiled. “I’ll be prudent.” He picked up a sandwich, saying, “And now for you—tell me what you have been doing these past few weeks.”

***

There was little to tell; by the time Thomas was done relating his activities, namely, the treatise, tea was over and they had gone outside for a stroll.

“It sounds wonderful, Thomas. Truly inspired.”

“Thank you, but you know the thoughts are not my own.”

“They are,” Jonathan disagreed hotly. “Every man has a jumping off point that is shared by others; where one jumps makes all the difference.”

“It’s a pointless exercise, in a way. Civilization isn’t ready to consider the notion that the mad have any rights. Did you know they allow visitors at certain hospitals on holidays?” He bent over and picked up a fallen sassafras branch.

“No. I didn’t know that.”

The fruit of the sassafras had just begun to show and he stroked a dark blue bud absently. “They don’t even require that these guests have relatives in the hospital. They just pay the fee and traipse in to gape and gawk.”

“Thomas?”

He jerked his head, up, startled and ashamed. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I didn’t sleep well last night. The paper, you realize…” He dropped the branch, hoping Jonathan would forgive him for the patently weak lie.

Jonathan hesitated for a brief moment, then said with false cheer, “I understand. I’ve been restless, as well.”

Thomas smiled gratefully at Jonathan’s reticence.

“But our conversation brings me to a topic I’ve been meaning to broach a while now.”

“If it’s to convince me to publish the treatise, please save your breath.”

“No,” Jonathan shook his head with a wave of his hand. “I am still of the belief that it would be well received by most of Europe but I have another proposal for you.”

“Yes?”

“I know you prefer not to travel to Charles Town to join society, but what if society joins you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Let me invite a small group of acquaintances to this island. People who share our ideals and who, I know, would enjoy your points of view.”

He’d told Jonathan very little of his past and certainly not of the golden afternoons and deep blue evenings when half of London would join he and Miranda for conversation and debate. The notion of having even a portion of that once more… “I haven’t the right. This is not my home.”

“Not in name, no, but everyone knows Lord Ashe no longer visits. The Camerons won’t object; they are not as tied to Lord Ashe as you might suppose.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I was unaware of any such thing. Do you know what has caused this rift?”

“Word has it that’s it’s due to Lord Ashe’s mysterious stranger.”

There was no wind, but the back of his neck grew cold. “Me?”

Jonathan nodded.

“What are they saying?”

“Nothing of note, just that Douglass Cameron has been grumbling about his guest not getting out enough and that Mrs. Cameron is worried about you.”

He looked back at the house, non-plussed. “She is?”

“You didn’t know?”

He frowned. “Know what?”

“That she dotes on you,” Jonathan said with a smile. “Mr. Smith has told me more than a few times that Mrs. Cameron always requests a special cut of beef, if they have it. When asked, she says it’s for _‘her gentleman’_. I doubt she’s referring to Lord Ashe.”

“I—” He shook his head. “I didn’t know,” he said after a moment.

“Now you do and now you can decide whether or not to let my friends be yours.” When Thomas didn’t say anything, Jonathan added, his voice lowering, “I know there is much of your past you wish to remain yours, but I promise, my friends know the value of discretion. They will have of you only what you give them.”

“Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Jonathan hesitated, as if searching for words. When he spoke, his words were kind but resolute, “Because I have never met a man like you. You were clearly raised to a station far greater than that of a recluse.”

Jonathan paused again, as if preparing a second blow and Thomas said in soft shock, “Go on.”

“You’re a good man, one whom I believe is meant for better, greater things. Whether or not your exile is of your own choosing, I think it a shame. And…” Jonathan hesitated once more, than said firmly, “I believe it’s counter to God’s will to let your natural gifts perish in a place like this. It’s a sin.”

“Well,” Thomas said, after a long moment. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Are you angry?”

He looked around at the grounds, the place that was at once prison and fugitive home, and found himself saying, “No, I am not. You remind me of a man I knew. He said something similar to me, once upon a time.”

“Was he a friend?”

“A dear friend.” He took a deep breath and turned around. Jonathan was still watching him tentatively. “You needn’t worry you’ve offended me; I appreciate your honesty.”

“Good. And about my friends—will you allow them to visit?”

“Yes,” he heard himself saying, “but four at the most. We’ll make it for this Thursday.”

***

Four, he had permitted, and four it was. All parishioners of Jonathan’s; a Mr. and Mrs. Henry Lewis who hailed from Boston, and two brothers, Patrick and Edward Monroe.

They stayed only two hours, arriving at seven and leaving at nine. The conversation was limited to the state of the colony but it was lively and interesting. The Camerons served and contrary to what he would have thought, he saw no censure or doubt. Mrs. Cameron actually smiled as she and the girl served the light meal Thomas had ordered.

At nine, Mrs. Cameron announced that the ferryman had arrived to take the Monroes and Lewises home.

Surprised but grateful, Thomas saw them to the door, then returned to the salon where Jonathan waited. He poured two glasses of port. “You ordered the ferry?”

“I did.”

How did you know?”

“That you could stand only so much?” Jonathan asked from his seat near the dying fire. “I’ve noticed that when one of my congregation has been through a long illness, it takes time to recuperate, to rejoin life.”

“And I’m the same?” He gave Jonathan a glass.

“Yes.”

He didn’t appreciate the analogy but it was true. He had done well for much of the evening but at one point his attention had lagged. It was at that moment when Jonathan had gently guided the conversation to a close; a few minutes later, Mrs. Cameron had come in.

“Did you like them?” Jonathan asked.

He sat on the settee. “Very much so. Mr. Lewis, I thought, would be the most obdurate but his ideas about the situation with the natives were most enlightening. He believes as you do that it will get worse before it get better. And yes,” he glanced at Jonathan and added, “you can say you told me it would be so.”

“I told you it would be so.”

He smiled and then they were both silent, each lost in thought.

Thomas was tired but not overly so; he might write a bit after Jonathan left. Patrick Monroe had mentioned something about the philosophical and social differences between the northern and southern colonies and he wanted to think on that some more. It was an interesting path of thought, that simple geography could influence an opinion or state of mind.

“Did you hear the news?” Jonathan said, frowning at his port.

He reached out to the candle and waved his finger through the flame. It burned, but just barely. “What news?”

“Lord Ashe announced another trial to take place in two days’ time.”

He sighed. “Another? When will he stop?”

“Not anytime soon and this promises to be a crowd pleaser.”

“How so?”

“The pirate in question is none other than Captain Flint.”

He sat up, his pleasant mood gone. In its place was a sudden rage, all the more violent for being so spontaneous. “James Flint is here, in Charles Town?”

Jonathan looked over and his expression changed. “You know him?”

He slammed his glass down, then stood and strode to the window. “I have never met him, no,” he said with perfect venom, “but I know _of_ him. I know of his cowardly acts. I know he’s a murderer and a ruiner of lives.”

“Thomas?”

“I know that in this instance, it is right he hang for his crimes.”

There was a long pause and then Jonathan stood as well and came closer. “I have never seen you like this. What is it?”

“Nothing but the fact that I am to have my vengeance, albeit as a bystander.”

“Did Flint kill someone you cared for?”

He gazed at the reflection of the glass, seeing not Jonathan but a man long dead. “I want to see him.”

“Who?”

“Flint. I want to go to the trial.” The need to see, to witness, filled his soul, making his chest ache.

“Thomas, no.”

He turned. Jonathan was staring at him with a kind of horror. He wanted to smile. “It shocks you? That I want to see that butcher die?”

“Of course, it does. You’ve said many times—”

He cut Jonathan off with a quick slash of his hand. “I know what I’ve said. I know most men are redeemable. I know this monster is not.”

This time the silence wasn’t comfortable, it was sharp and painful.

“I can’t allow you to do this,” Jonathan finally said.

He tipped his chin up. “And how do you propose to stop me? Imprison me? Chain me up behind lock and key? Both of these have been done and I promise, I will prevail.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have to prepare.” Hot rage had cooled to pitiless resolve. He could travel by foot and cross the Church Creek Bridge, but a boat was swifter. He would need a guide and eventually a place to stay in Charles Town should the trial progress past the day. He had no money but the Camerons must have some he could borrow or maybe Jonathan could give him a bed for the night. He’d repay them all in some way.

“Thomas—”

“You can see yourself out.”

He made to leave but Jonathan hurriedly set his glass down and grabbed him, spinning him around. “Thomas, I won’t let you do this.”

Surprised once more, he stilled in fury. “Get your hands off me.”

“No,” Jonathan said again, pleading, grasping both of Thomas’s arms. “Not until you see reason. Not until you understand that you _cannot_ do this!”

It was London all over again, Bedlam all over again. Shock gave way to fear, lending him strength. He twisted out of Jonathan’s grip and lashed out, striking him across the jaw.

The blow was true. Jonathan staggered and gasped in surprise, cradling his jaw, and just that, Jonathan’s look of bewildered confusion, brought Thomas to his senses.

He stepped back. “I am so sorry,” he said after a moment. “Jonathan, I am so very sorry.” He felt dizzy, different, as if his soul had left his body for a brief space of time.

Jonathan winced and touched his fingertips to the bruise already forming. But he was smiling ruefully. “For a man who spends his days writing, you have an exceptionally strong arm.”

“I don’t just write, you know; I also garden.”

It was a nonsensical statement and they looked at each other and laughed.

His own laughter was feeble but it loosened the dull band of anger still binding his chest. He held out his hand; Jonathan took it and they shook hands.

He pulled free and peered at the bruise. “Do you need something for that? A poultice?”

“No, I’ve had worse. I’ll be fine.”

His knuckles and wrist hurt. “What will your congregation say?”

“I’ll tell them I was visiting the Widow Hemmit; they’ll understand.”

Thomas wasn’t sure who the Widow Hemmit was nor did he much care. “Jonathan…”

“Please, don’t worry.”

“Very well.” He nodded, feeling as tired as if he’d just gone on a fifteen-mile march. “I think I should get to bed. I’ll walk you to the door.”

Jonathan gestured and they turned as one.

“You are right, of course,” Thomas said. “Bearing witness will not help.”

“Neither will vengeance. That isn’t ours to undertake,” Jonathan answered gently. “We need to leave that for one wiser.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me you won’t do anything rash. Tell me you’ll stay here.”

He held Jonathan’s gaze. “I won’t go anywhere. I promise.” He didn’t think he could, even if he wanted to.

“Good,” Jonathan sighed heavily. “Otherwise my conscience would dictate I stay and I can’t do that tonight.”

They were at the front door; he got out Jonathan’s cloak from the small closet and handed it to him. “Is there someone in need of your services?”

“I’m not sure. This morning, my housekeeper told me of a young woman newly arrived to Charles Town. She’s been in a bad way and has need of my counsel.”

“I know she’ll benefit from your help; anyone would.”

Jonathan swung the cloak over his shoulders and fastened it. They walked out together. On the top steps, he paused. “Thomas?”

“Yes?” The gig and driver were some distance away. The driver had lit a lantern and it hung above the horse like a small star.

“About what you said earlier.” Jonathan glanced around. “About your comment of being imprisoned, I—”

“I prefer not to speak of that.”

Jonathan stared at him for a moment, then nodded shortly. “I understand.”

“I hope you do.”

“There is so much more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?” When Thomas didn’t answer, Jonathan added, “If my duties permit, I’ll visit tomorrow.”

“There is no need.”

“I’ll come. I’ll bring news of the governor, at the very least.”

“Very well, I’ll look forward to it.”

They shook hands again.

Thomas watched the gig until it was lost in the dark. When he could see no more, he went inside for his tea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Charles Town_

 

Waking from the thin edge of sleep, James tried to move and couldn’t. He tried again, pulling on something that pulled back. He opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on but what came out was a soft groan. It was that pathetic sound more than anything else that cleared his brain.

He was half lying on a wooden platform, back against a bar, his arms hanging over the same. His neck and wrists were encircled with metal bands and connected by a thick chain. Every time he moved his arms, the chain at his neck grew tight, keeping him in place.

They’d chained him. Like an animal they had chained him and he growled, jerking his arms, and only succeeded in pulling himself back against the bar once more. He tried again, this time to see if he could loosen the bar from its moorings; it didn’t budge.

He gave up after a moment and looked about. The platform was in the middle of a square and though it was still grey dawn, there were a few people about. One, a woman of Eleanor’s age, was carrying a basket. When she met his gaze, she ducked her head and walked faster.

He sneered at her obvious fright; what did she think he could do, trussed up here?

So much for Miranda’s plan, so much for reason and forgiveness. He knew what was to happen as if it already had: he’d be tried, condemned and then hanged and there was nothing he could do about it. Other than refusing to give an inch, and he promised himself that would be his response, promised that no matter what they did, they would get nothing more from him.

It was almost ironic in some sick way—if Miranda was still drawing breath, her presence would have been the only thing that could have swayed his determination to not give in. Perhaps her death was fortunate—at least she wouldn’t have to see the results of her scheming.

The minute the thought crossed his mind, he wished he could take it back. There was nothing good about her death, _nothing._

He’d had only two reasons to keep going; the first was taken from him within the space of two heartbeats. The second would die a quiet death the moment he stopped breathing and he couldn’t stand it, that Thomas’s dream would die as well. He’d been holding it close for so very long…

He wanted to rage, he wanted to weep, but could do neither so he settled for testing the chains once more with the same results. He  growled helplessly, then forced a deep breath. If there was nothing he could do, then there was nothing he could do.

The morning was coming on and with it, a few more gawkers. They stood and stared, talking about him as if he were deaf, as if he were a _thing_.

Not wanting to give them any amusement, he closed his eyes, his mind adrift.

As if waiting for that very thing, a memory that was not true memory slipped through his guard, showing its sickening form. He’d never had the chance to rescue Thomas from Bethlem Hospital and thus had no true memory of it. His imagination, however, was too good at conjuring something out of nothing and had created it for him. Without intent, he slipped into the very familiar fantasy of crashing through Bedlam’s doors, of searching for Thomas only to find him in a cell already dead, already—

He winced from the false memory. He didn’t want to think on that black thing, that torment, and he backed away, forcing another, recalling one of his most favorite. It had been so warm that night, partly from the crowd and partly from the…

_…myriad of candles all about. He wishes he could remove his heavy coat but of course cannot. A servant drifts by with a tray of flutes and he takes one. The wine is cool and delicious and it goes down easily. He glances to the women on his left, smiling when they acknowledge his presence. It is only then, after a nod to propriety, that he lets his attention turn to the far side of the room where Thomas is standing, in his element._

_Thomas is in the center of a group of men and women, not because he sought the attention, but because his admirers have stopped what they were doing and have drawn close. The gathering, ostensibly a social evening of music and dancing, has turned into something more._

_Earlier, James had given a token protest, saying that it wouldn’t be appropriate, that Thomas’s friends didn’t care for him and always gave him the most curious looks._

_Thomas had laughed and said, ‘My friends can look at you all you want, but please remember you are mine.’_

_They were in bed at the time, snatching a brief moment at James’s billet because the Kensington house was flooded with servants and tradesmen in preparation for the party. Thomas had arrived, breathless from running up the stairs, saying he’d fled because he couldn’t get any work done and he had to have quiet or he’d go mad._

_James had let him in, not surprised when work turned into lovemaking, though he hadn’t been trying hard at the former._

_Now he listens as Thomas speaks of responsibility and the honor of helping those less fortunate, an ache growing in his chest. Lord Grey makes a comment about the natural order of things and the equal importance of not questioning God’s intent. Thomas doesn’t mock or deride. He simply counters Grey’s cynicism in a plain but eloquent fashion. By the time he’s finished, even Grey nods in reluctant agreement._

_And then, Thomas looks over and with perfect accuracy, catches James’s gaze._

_Heart suddenly in his throat, James makes no acknowledgement. He turns and slowly makes his way through the crowd that has now reformed into smaller groups._

_After the heat and the noise, the passageway to the north garden is blessedly quiet and cool. The small terrace is just as cool though it’s late spring. It’s been raining and no one but the very desperate would come out in such weather. He laughs at himself because it’s true: he’s desperate for Thomas._

_The door behind him opens; he doesn’t turn, instead waiting for Thomas to say the thing he always says when they haven’t seen each other for more than a few hours, the thing that James thinks has to speak of love, though neither have mentioned the word out loud. He hears soft steps and then, on a low catch of breath, ‘There you are.’_

_They don’t have much time but they’ve done this before, risked this before. He hurries down the steps to a small pavilion off to the right. He doesn’t go in but around. Thomas catches up to him there, pushing him against the cold marble wall. He wants to tell Thomas he was brilliant tonight but Thomas is already kissing him but carefully so as not to crease his shirt or muss his queue._

_That’s all they do, a few minutes of sweet kisses but it’s enough. The ache dies to a muted discomfort and he’s able to let Thomas go, back to the party, back to his friends, back to—_

…the noise of the crowd has risen to a din, making it impossible for him to stay in that place of safety and happiness. He opened his eyes. Across from him, men are setting up tables and chairs. Nearby, a green-coated man with the air of a judge stands watching him with a small, mean smile.

_‘So,’_ James thought, lowering his head, his expression hardening. ‘ _Here I am. Do your worst.’_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Wadmalaw Island_

 

The morning after Jonathan’s visit was a difficult one.

He’d woken to a familiar depression, feeling dull and quiet, unable to greet the day as he normally would. He ate his morning meal and then went for a short walk to Church Creek. A storm had passed in the night. The grounds smelled of damp soil and the paths were muddy, almost impassable.

He didn’t stay long at the river’s edge—he watched the water flow by for a few minutes and then returned to the house. He went to the study and, ignoring Mrs. Cameron’s calls for a light meal, tried to write. He gave up just past two, unable to concentrate. He stoppered the ink and put away the quills. If he weren’t so tired, he’d force himself to go on a longer walk in an attempt to banish his dark mood.

The problem, he mused as he turned to stare out the tall windows, wasn’t Jonathan and his questions or Peter and what he’d turned out to be. It wasn’t even, God help him, the pirate Flint. No, the problem was within himself.

_‘I believe it is counter to God’s will to let your natural gifts perish in a place like this. It’s a sin.’_

Jonathan’s words, though freshly given, had taken root and grown like a canker in his soul, an invisible injury that his thoughts kept touching on, again and again.

He’d always believed in personal and social responsibility. He’d always believed his position in life was a gift from God that required sacrifice and concern for those less fortunate. His salons had been birthed from the need to convince his friends and acquaintances of the same.

Where had he gone wrong? Was it the day he’d been drugged with laudanum and taken to that place? Or the day he’d realized that no one was coming for him, not family, not friends, not even James.

Or was it simply, finally, the day he had received the news of James’s death?

If that was so, if his love for James had broken him, was it not logical that such a love was poisonous to his soul? Not wrong or unfortunate, but _poisonous?_

He made a noise deep in his throat and closed his eyes, repudiating the thought as quickly as it had come. James had been a blessing; nothing and no one would make him see different.

But, perhaps Jonathan was right in the argument that he was wasting his life away in this place. He’d used the excuse of his long confinement, his need to hide from the powerful men in London; he’d even used the excuse that he was atoning for his inability to help James when he’d needed it. He’d said so to Peter and though that had been the truth in the beginning, was it now?

Did he have the right to live this way, mind and soul firmly closed to the world around him? Was it not selfish and immature and against God’s design to behave like a babe afraid of the dark? A war had been waged and won in his absence. A queen had died and a new king had replaced her.

There was so much going on, so many lives being lost to disease and the general hardships of life and if _that_ were so, if his old truths still held strong, wasn’t he obligated to do what he could?

Only a year ago, he’d quite happily convinced himself he could aid no one because he _was_ no one. That it was best if he continue in the shadows, away from the light of life.

Which begged the question: if his true self could be lost so easily, what did that say about that same true self?

_‘My son is indulged. My son is self-righteous.’_

His father had said those words. At the time he’d dismissed them out of hand but looking back from the safety of a life that held neither judge nor jury, he had to consider that perhaps some small portion of those accusations had been true. His childhood had been lonely but he was his father’s sole heir—coddled from birth by family and caretakers, indulgedwasn’t the half of it.

Had he only been fighting for the pardons simply because of vanity or worse, because he knew his father would not approve? James had tried to tell him it was hopeless, Miranda had argued two weeks straight that he needed to practice pragmatism. He hadn’t listened and in doing so, had brought them to ruin.

He’d been like a child, the world his bauble, and those he’d loved had suffered for it.

He rubbed his forehead, then chin, struggling against the shame that made his belly ache, trying for the calm that had been his constant companion for the last five years.

Calm didn’t come and after a moment, he stood and went outside, hoping a hard walk would dispel the mortification and pain.

The pristine morning had turned into a beautiful afternoon and he had to shade his eyes, so bright was the sun. He took the path that led south only to stop when he’d cleared the manor.

Without giving it much thought, he’d assumed the Camerons were going about their normal day, which meant the routine chores of caring for the livestock, cleaning and mending. They, however, were not doing those things; they were both standing in the kitchen garden, facing east.

“What is it?” he called out, skirting a row of lettuces to stand next to them.

“Listen,” Cameron whispered.

Thomas opened his mouth to ask what he was supposed to be listening _to_ , when he heard it, a rumbled boom and then another. Other than the skirmish off the coast of Majorca, he’d never been in any kind of conflict or war, but he knew cannon fire when he heard it. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. “Is that coming from Charles Town? Is it Spain?”

“Could be,” Cameron muttered. “It only just started.”

“Perhaps it is some sort of naval exercise?”

“What naval exercise would waste that many—”

“Hush!” Mrs. Cameron interrupted her husband, her hand up. “Someone is coming.”

“Yes, and whoever it is, they’re using the bridge,” Thomas confirmed.

As one, they rushed around the rear of the manor to see a horse with a single rider tearing up the road from the Church Creek Bridge. The rider was wearing a hat pulled down low and it took Thomas a moment to realize the visitor was none other than Jonathan and that he wasn’t alone.

He hurried to meet Jonathan as he reined the horse in, ducking out of the way when the horse danced and reared.

“What is it?” he said, taking the reins. “What has happened?”

“Charles Town is under attack,” Jonathan said, his breath ragged and hoarse. “And the Governor is dead.”

“Good God,” Cameron whispered in horror as his wife covered her mouth with her hand.

“By whom?” Thomas asked in a daze. The horse sidled once again and he saw that Jonathan’s guest was a girl, around seventeen or eighteen with dark hair and wide, frightened eyes. Her face was grimy and she was dressed in traveling clothes and carrying a small portmanteau. “Who would do such a thing?” And then, before Jonathan could answer, he gestured to the girl. “Douglass, help this young woman down.”

Cameron obeyed as Jonathan said, “It was pirates. They fired upon the town and the ships in the bay.”

Another rumble from a cannon interrupted Jonathan and they all stilled, waiting for the next rounds that came over and over like a wave crashing on a beach.

“We should get inside,” Cameron said, making a gesture like he was herding geese.

“Yes,” Thomas agreed. “For now, that’s the safest place.” He glanced at Cameron, knowing the falseness of his own words.

Jonathan took the girl’s arm, saying softly, “Come, my dear. Come inside and rest.” When he reached for her portmanteau, she shook her head and held it from him.

Thomas followed, watching the girl carefully. She had to be the girl Jonathan had spoken of, the one who was in a bad way. Thomas had assumed the girl was either pregnant or in love with someone unsuitable, but now, noticing the dark circles under her eyes and the blank starkness of her gaze, he thought it must be something more dire.

When they got to the drawing room, he instructed Cameron to light the fire and asked Mrs. Cameron to fetch tea and whatever food she thought a young woman might like. Then, he gestured for Jonathan and the girl to take the settee by the fire while he took the chair.

He gave Jonathan time to catch his breath, then said, “Let’s start again. The pirates are attacking Charles Town. Why?”

“It was due to the trial I was telling you about.”

“The one concerning Captain Flint? I thought that was to take place tomorrow or the next day?”

Jonathan nodded. “It was. I don’t know why it was expedited. Some new evidence, perhaps? In any case, it began this morning.”

“Were you there?”

“For part of it; I was asked to attend by Lord Ashe but I couldn’t stomach it. I left when they brought a coffin into the square. They opened it up; in it was the body of a woman. She’d been shot in the temple.” Jonathan shook his head in disgust. “It was barbaric, simply barbaric.”

Thomas frowned. “Woman? There was a woman involved in all of this?”

“I don’t know her name, just that she was with Flint when they—”

“Barlow,” the girl spoke for the first time, her voice soft and cultured. She raised her head and looked straight at Thomas, her gaze turned hard as stone. “Her name was Mrs. Barlow. My father’s man, Colonel Rhett, shot her.”

He started to offer his condolences when he realized what the girl had said. He leaned forward. “ _‘Father?’_ Your father is Peter Ashe?”

She nodded and whispered, “He was. He is dead.”

He sat back. “My God,” he whispered. “When?”

“During the attack.”

He shook his head, unable to take in her information and maybe he looked as dazed as he felt because that was when Jonathan came to his rescue.

“Forgive my manners,” Jonathan said. “I completely forgot: Miss Ashe, this is Thomas, a friend of mine. Thomas, this is Abigail.”

Thomas nodded absently, Jonathan’s words coming as if from a great distance as he struggled to remember:

He and Miranda had invited Peter and Anne to share their box at Drury Lane to see Vanbrugh’s _The Relapse._ After, Peter had insisted they stop by his house for late supper and a discussion of the play. As they were standing in the entryway, waiting to have their cloaks removed, a young girl came running down the stairs, followed by her nurse.

The girl was about four or five, dressed in her nightclothes, her long dark hair loose upon her shoulders. She ran up to Anne, asking if she could have one of the sweets waiting in the small dining room. Anne had clasped her close and told her it was too late for such things and then sent her off with the nurse. They had all laughed because the child was charming. Even now, he remembered her climbing the stairs with her nurse, gazing back at them with wide, impish eyes. Unthinkable that such a happy child could grow to be this grave young woman.

“My dear,” he said, searching for the right words as this had to be done delicately to preserve his anonymity. “Perhaps you won’t remember me, but we met a very long time ago in London. I was a friend of your father’s; I am saddened to see you in such circumstances.”

He hoped she’d leave it at that but she frowned and asked, “When? When did we meet?”

He glanced at Jonathan who was watching the exchange with great interest. “You were only a child at the time. I and my wife, Miranda, came for a late supper one night aft…” He trailed off as Abigail gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Your wife,” Abigail whispered. “Your wife is Lady Miranda Hamilton?”

Abigail was staring at him with a kind of horror; Jonathan was staring at him in utter confusion. “She was,” he said quietly, not wanting to give more details.

Abigail’s hands dropped to her lap. She swallowed and whispered, “I am sorry. I am so very sorry.”

He frowned in bewilderment only to be distracted by the Camerons with the tea. He waited until they had left to say, “What can you possibly be sorry—”

She leaned forward. “I tried to warn them. I said my father was much changed though we only conversed through—” She seemed on the edge of tears, her eyes were bright, feverish. “I had no idea you were alive, that you were here! I heard them, they talked as if you were dead!”

He shook his head, his own confusion so great he hardly knew what to ask. “What warning and whom? Whom are you speaking of?”

“Miranda.” Abigail closed her eyes briefly as she shook her head. “Lady Hamilton, that is to say. Lady Hamilton and Captain Flint thought you were dead.” She was crying openly, the tears slipping down her cheeks. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s not possible,” he said in a daze.

“What is not possible?”

“Do you mean to tell me that my wife is in Charles Town?”

“No. She was living on Nassau Island. I believe she had been there for a number of years.”

“And she and Captain Flint were traveling together? They are companions?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Help me understand—my wife whom I thought married and living in England is friends with that butcher?”

Abigail blinked. “Pardon me?”

He rose and took a step towards her. “Flint! Captain Flint! The man that ruined all our lives!”

Abigail sat as if frozen though Jonathan had stood as well, putting a hand on his arm. “Thomas, please sit down.”

He shook Jonathan’s hand off. “Well?”

“I—” she began, then quickly looked at Jonathan. “Pastor Reynolds?”

“Yes?”

“Could you please give us a moment?”

Thomas waved that away. “Anything you need to say can be said in front of Jonathan.”

“No,” she said. “It cannot.”

He gazed at her, then said, “Very well… Jonathan, if you don’t mind?”

Jonathan glanced between them, then said reluctantly, “As you wish, but I’m not leaving until we talk about what’s to become of Miss Ashe.”

“Of course. If you’re hungry, ask Mrs. Cameron to fix you something.”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll be on the porch.”

Thomas waited until he and Abigail were alone, then said, “Now, what is this all about?”

“I don’t know how to tell you what I know.”

“Tell me of Miranda. How did you come to know her?”

“It’s not that simple.” She turned to face him. “I’m only now realizing that I know more of your story than I thought. It’s all so— Here…” She bent down and dragged her portmanteau closer, then opened it up.

Thomas had assumed the case held hastily packed clothing but it was filled with documents and books. Abigail picked up a ledger and then a jeweler’s box, searching for something near the bottom of the bag.

“I know I put them in here,” she murmured. “I made sure— Here they are.” She found a narrow box and drew out a sheaf of letters, years old by the look of them. She glanced up at Thomas, a quick, uneasy glance, then put two back. “I found them in my father’s study. I know I shouldn’t have read them, but…” She gathered the letters and held them out. “If you want privacy, I can leave them with you. I would like to wash my face, in any case.”

He nodded slowly and took the letters. She picked up the portmanteau and hurried from the room.

He rose and went to the window seat and examined the letters. They were without envelopes and had no addresses, wax or franking stamps. He unfolded the first.

_Lord Peter Ashe  
London_

_My dear sir. I write this to thank you for your letter of the 15th, though I hardly know what to say other than my Disgust knows no bounds. You will be so good as to Inform of any more Offences perpetrated by Thomas. You will also be so good as to keep the details to yourself._

_A. Hamilton_

So, he thought, as a wash of heat flooded his cheeks and chest. So. Unable to think beyond the simple, _‘so,’_ he unfolded the next letter:

 

_Peter Ashe  
London_

_My dear boy and I feel I can call you that after months of you acting on my behalf, I write this to inform you that the deed is done. I have met with Adm. Hennessey and he has agreed to our proposal. As soon as Lt. McGraw returns from the West Indies, he is to be summarily dismissed and stripped of all medals and decorations. If I had my way, he’d meet the Gallows but Hennessey refuses the request. I would fight him on this but want this whole ordeal behind me. I don’t have to tell you that my position at court requires that this be handled with all possible discretion. My men will come for my son either this week or next. You have asked that this be a temporary arrangement and tho I’m reluctant, I can give you that. My son will be confined at the Hospital until this Repulsive sin is cleansed from his soul._

_Yrs  
A.H._

And then the third:

_P.A._  
London, England  
April, 1710

_I write from my holdings on Harbor Island to inform you that I have done as you requested and have obtained the papers. You may retrieve him from that place after Thomas Allen, Administrator, has received the letter of release from the Court of Governors. I hope you know what you are doing. The one thing I require is that you move him somewhere out of London. Since he was so enamored of the New World, he can end his days there. I suggest a home in Carolina away from all polite Society._

_A.H._

And, finally, the last:

_Lord Peter Ashe_  
Province of Carolina  
December, 1710

_Dear Peter, I trust this letter finds you well. I am writing from Boston where it is very dirty and very cold. I have had word from Lord Harrison that your Plan to re-enforce and re-configure the Harbor has been met with great enthusiasm. You are doing good work my boy. Keep it up and you will one day play a big part in the administration of the Carolinas._

_Yrs,  
A.H._

Thomas sat there long after he’d finished reading, unable to think much beyond _well…_

So distant, his father, so absolute in his disgust and hatred. He couldn’t even bring himself to write the word, _‘Thomas_ ,’ in the last few letters.

If he’d ever wondered if his father had ever softened towards him, he now had proof. His father hadn’t just despised him—he’d used him to kill two birds with one stone. In one fairly easy move, he’d eliminated a personal embarrassment as well as a political one.

Well…

The night song of a robin roused him from his daze and he looked out. Day had fallen to early evening. Cameron was in the pasture, leading the horses into the barn. The servant girl, the fair-haired one that always stared at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, was sweeping the steps clear of debris.

The day seemed perfectly normal. No dark clouds hinted that something cataclysmic had just occurred. His life had turned upside down in a few meager minutes and there was absolutely no outward sign of it.

He stood and went to the door.

He found Mrs. Cameron in the kitchen making some sort of pie. She startled when he crossed the threshold and, belatedly, he wondered what the attack on Charles Town meant to her _._

“Mrs. Cameron? I’d like to offer Miss Ashe a suite of rooms for as long as she needs them. It is, after all, her home.”

Mrs. Cameron wiped her hands on her apron. “I was thinking the very same, sir. The room down from yours, the one with the yellow rose paper, would suit a girl, don’t you think?”

“I do, indeed. About supper—she must be starving.”

“I gave her and Pastor Reynolds each a piece of cold pie from yesterday. And,” she lifted the lid of the black kettle, “tonight we’ll have a collop of rabbits with dumplings and carrots. Will the Pastor be staying?”

“I’m not sure. We still need to discuss the events of today.”

“I can open up one of the bedrooms for him, if you like.”

“Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

He turned to go, then stopped. “Mrs. Cameron? Do you have anyone in town that might like sanctuary here? Mr. Cameron can fetch them, if so.”

She gave him a long look, then smiled briefly. “Thank you, sir, but no—we’re all we have.”

He nodded and left in better spirits. He had been living in Peter’s house for almost five years and this was the warmest reception he’d received from her that entire time. What had changed?

He was still mulling that over when he stepped out onto the porch.

“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked.

“I am,” he answered, mostly to Abigail. “I must apologize if I frightened you earlier; I’ve not been myself lately.”

She frowned but just nodded.

“Has there been anymore cannon fire?”

Jonathan shook his head. “No, thank God.”

“Let’s hope they’ve moved on.”

“Miss Abigail was telling me of the events that have transpired today. Will you sit?”

He considered the darkening skies, the isolation of the house. “No, we should go inside.”

Mrs. Cameron had been busy in the drawing room. The fire was built up and the tea tray had been removed. In its place was a fresh pot and a bottle of port. “Jonathan, will you join me?”

Jonathan hesitated, then said, “Normally, I’d say no, but this day hasn’t been normal, has it?”

“It has not.” He poured the port, then turned to Abigail. “Miss Ashe, would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

He nodded and went to sit by the fire. “Well,” he said, looking at the two of them. “Here we are once more.”

Jonathan raised his glass to that but said nothing.

Abigail clasped her hands together. “I suppose you would like to know what I know.”

“I think that would be best, yes.”

She nodded and then with a small sigh, began her tale.

***

“And you saw all that from your position in the crowd?” He pushed his half-eaten rabbit stew to the side. Abigail’s tale had been long and they’d had to stop halfway through to go into supper.

Abigail nodded, eating the last of her dumpling. “As I said, my father had made arrangements for my departure from the city. I changed those arrangements unbeknownst to him. When Captain Vane began his assault, I returned to the house.” She looked up at Thomas and opened her mouth to say more, but glanced at Jonathan. “I happened upon the pastor on my way there.”

It was clear she had been about to speak of something else but Thomas didn’t push her. “I’m so very glad you did. I don’t like to think what might have happened to you, had you not.”

“I, as well,” murmured Jonathan.

“And you’re sure Flint survived?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“That’s a shame.”

She said nothing for a moment, then murmured, “He is not how you think he is.”

“I do not doubt that—I’m sure he’s much worse.” She started to say something, but he interrupted gently, “That must be a debate for another time. Now we need to discuss what to do with you.”

She pushed her plate away. “What do you suggest?”

“For now, I’m asking you to stay here, in your father’s house. I’ll ride into town in the morning and get the news.”

Abigail firmed her jaw, then asked quietly, “Will there be reprisals against Captain Flint?”

He frowned. “Of course, there will be. He fired upon Charles Town. Half the fleet in New York is probably on their way down to hunt him down as we speak.” Whatever anger he’d held towards Flint had transmuted from the need for vengeance to the need for justice. “And then there’s the death of your father.”

“I’m not sure he _is_ dead. I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be, but I didn’t witness it.”

Jonathan leaned forward. “You said you saw Captain Flint run him through, yes?”

“I did. I also saw him say something to my father right after. If he was dead, why the need to speak to him?”

“I suppose he could be alive,” Thomas said slowly, unable to clear the doubt from his voice. The girl was behaving as if her father’s death didn’t matter. Who was she protecting? Her father, the pirate or someone else entirely? “When I go into town, I’ll make inquiries. Jonathan? Can you stay the night?”

Jonathan wiped his mouth with his napkin and shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I need to return. There are the arrangements for Mrs. Barlow’s burial, though they might fight me on that front, and my parishioners might have need of me. I should have returned long ago.”

“Thank you for staying.”

“Well,” Jonathan shrugged, “you’re my parishioner, of sorts, and you had need of me.”

He smiled briefly. “Cameron will saddle your horse.”

“Thank you.”

***

He walked Jonathan as far as the path that turned north to the bridge. “If you have urgent news, send a runner, don’t neglect your duties on my account.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll wait until noon. If I’ve heard nothing by then, I’ll make the trip myself.”

Jonathan nodded. “Very well.”

“We need confirmation of Peter’s death. It will be holy hell if he is dead.”

“That’s true.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Jonathan. What are you not saying?”

Jonathan stopped as well. The horse tossed its head. “I’m still in a state of shock, I suppose.”

“Because you know who I really am?” He’d wanted to tell Jonathan the truth for some time, but now that it was out…? “By the look on your face, you’ve heard certain stories about me.”

“I’ve a friend in London,” Jonathan said slowly. “We both went to Oxford until his family moved him to Cambridge.” He glanced at Thomas from under the brim of his hat. “He’s the fourth Earl of Burnside.”

Thomas nodded. “William Howard.” He and Howard had been at Eton together.

“We met in London while I was waiting to hear about my posting to Carolina.” He cleared his throat, then continued, “One day, Will told me a story that had been making the rounds, of a man from his school by the name of Hamilton. Hamilton had been committed to Bethlem Royal Hospital by his father after he’d gone mad with grief over the discovery that his wife was having an affair with his closest friend.”

He smiled calmly, feeling anything but. “Go on.”

“Apparently, in this state of extreme grief, this man swallowed a large dose of laudanum and died. The ruling by the Court of Governors was self-destruction.”

“It was.”

Jonathan turned and faced him, asking directly, “That man was you?”

“It was,” he repeated. “Although I didn’t die, as you can see.”

His attempt at humor was lost on Jonathan. “Were you imprisoned in that place?”

“I was. For almost four years.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Jonathan swore under his breath. “How did you get out? I would think it impossible.”

“I was admitted as a criminal,” he said, gathering dispassion to him like a warm cloak. “Lord Ashe petitioned my father, saying that after three years, people would have forgotten my crime. My father in turn brought his influence to bear; I was granted a pardon almost three years to the day of my incarceration, though it took some months to be released.”

Jonathan ran his hand over his head, forgetting his cocked hat. It fell to the ground and he swore again as he picked it up, “ _Damnation.”_

“Jonathan, perhaps you should discontinue your visits.”

In the middle of brushing the dust off his hat, Jonathan glanced up. “Pardon?”

“It seems that Peter was wrong. If you remember my story, perhaps others would, too. If the truth does get out, the last thing I want is to cause you embarrassment, or worse, censure at the hands of the Church.”

“Thomas.” Peter stepped forward to clasp Thomas’s arm. “I don’t give a damn what the church says. I only care about serving God.”

“I think, in this regard, the two are the same. If you are servant to one, you must be servant to the other.”

“In this regard, in this _place,_ I have to do as my conscience dictates and sometimes that means placing God above my church.”

He’d often been accused of being an idealist, but even he knew the dangerous path Jonathan was treading. “Jonathan, I do not think this is a good idea. You haven’t even asked why I was incarcerated.”

“That’s because I don’t care. I know you. Anything you did was right in the eyes of God.”

Jonathan’s tone was firm, sure, and Thomas swallowed. It had been so very long since someone had believed in him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Jonathan put on his hat. “Besides, my bishop is in Boston; what he doesn’t know cannot hurt me.”

Still not convinced, he nodded shortly. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Jonathan gripped his arm tight, then let go. “As is yours. And now…” He mounted his horse. “I’ll be off.”

“Please take care.”

“I will. You and Cameron watch the roads, just in case.”

“We will.”

With a soft, “Get on, now,” and a heel to the horse’s flank, Jonathan was off.

Thomas watched for the longest time without truly watching. Fate and chance were the oddest of companions. Who would have thought that out here in the wilderness, his past would come calling?

But, that was the thing about both, he thought as he turned to go back into the house—both were indomitable, both were inescapable.

***

He went to the drawing room by way of the north library doors, making sure to lock and bolt them. Jonathan’s words were a warning. The house was too far from Charles Town for the casual marauder but those bent on escape? It didn’t bear thinking on.

He met Mrs. Cameron at the foot of the stairs. She had an armful of linens and what looked to be several dresses.

“Are those for Miss Ashe?” he asked.

“They are. They won’t fit but I’ll take care of that.”

“I’ll send her up as soon as I make sure she’s eaten enough.”

“Go take a look at her. I think she’s done for the evening.”

He went into the drawing room, and yes, Abigail wasn’t going to be eating anything else, anytime soon. She was curled up in the corner of the settee, sound asleep.

He bent low and touched her shoulder. “Miss Abigail?”

He had barely grazed her but she bolted awake as if he’d slapped her. She looked around wildly, as if searching for her attacker.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, stepping back to give her room.

“No,” Abigail said, rubbing her eyes. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“After what you have been through, you can hardly be blamed for reacting so.”

“No,” she said again, pushing upright. “I’m sorry for what I have to tell you. I would have sooner, even as soon as I realized who you were, but the pastor was here and I didn’t want—” She looked down at her hands. “I liked her so very much, you see, and…” She shook her head, her face twisted as if she was going to cry.

He gave her his handkerchief, saying softly, “Mrs. Barlow, you mean?”

“No,” she said once more, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Not Mrs. Barlow. She was living under that guise, but it wasn’t her true name.” She reached out as if to touch his hand, only to withdraw just as quickly. “I am so sorry,” she repeated.

It was that last ‘sorry’ and the look on her face that finally did it. He sat down heavily on the couch, his legs given out.

“I’m such a fool,” he murmured. “When you said you’d met my wife, I had assumed—” He looked over at her. “Miranda was using the name ‘Barlow,’ wasn’t she?”

Abigail nodded.

“She was the one you referred to earlier. She was the woman in the coffin.”

They weren’t questions, but Abigail nodded as if they were.

“I was told—” He closed his eyes briefly. “I was told she had remarried and was living in the country.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Peter told me this: _‘She’s married and living in the country with her new husband and two children.’_ Those were his exact words.”

“I think my father—”

“Yes, your father,” he said roughly, cutting her off mid-speech with a sharp gesture. He didn’t want to talk about Peter anymore; couldn’t, in fact, talk about Peter anymore. He wanted silence and peace and his tea. “Miss Ashe? Would you mind if we continued this conversation in the morning? I need some time to take this all in.”

“Of course.”

He stood up. “I’ll show you to your room.”

She stood as well and picked up her portmanteau. He’d forgotten it was even there. “Thank you.”

He led her upstairs, keeping his eyes firmly on the carpet runner, counting the roses as if it would keep the pain at bay.

Mrs. Cameron had left the door to the room open and the light spilled out, creating a rectangle of warm yellow on the carpet. He stopped at its edge. “I hope this will suit you. We don’t have many guests.”

“I’m sure it will be lovely.”

He smiled, barely. She had been through so much and still had time for manners.

“I’m right across the hall.” He pointed. “And the Camerons are next to the kitchen. If you need anything, please let me know. We don’t stand on ceremony, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Thank you.” She stepped into the room and glanced around.

“Wait.” He reached in his pocket and took out the letters. His hand was shaking lightly; no matter, in a few more minutes he’d be in his rooms. “These are yours.”

“You don’t want to keep them?”

He wanted to tear them up, he wanted to set them on fire and watch the paper burn to nothing but ash and smoke. “I do not.”

She took them. “Very well.”

“I need to ensure the doors and windows are secured. I will see you in the morning.” He turned to go, but she stopped him with a quick hand on his arm.

“Lord Hamilton?”

He almost looked around to see whom she was talking to. No one had called him that in eight years and rightly so—that man was dead. “Yes?”

“About Captain Flint? You _do_ mean to pursue action against him?”

He couldn’t help a cold, small smile. “I will do everything in my power. Which,” he added with a mocking laugh, “admittedly isn’t as much of a threat as it once was.”

“But _why?”_

It was like a burr under the skin, the need for solitude. “You said my wife was traveling with him?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I don’t know the terms of their relationship but they knew each other.”

“Then _he_ is the reason she is dead. _He_ is the reason your father is either dead or dying, the reason the people of Charles Town are living in fear. A monster such as that cannot continue to exist in a free society. You must see that.”

“You sound like my father,” she said slowly.

To be compared with Peter was not to be borne and he said coldly, “Goodnight, Miss Ashe.”

She hesitated, then gathered her portmanteau to her and closed the door.

He went downstairs and confirmed that all the locks and latches were fast. Much of the house was closed off so there were only the first and second floors to worry about. When he was certain everything was secure, he went to his rooms.

Mrs. Cameron had been here as well—the bed was turned down, the candles were lit and his pot of tea was on the bedside table.

He went to pour a cup, then hesitated. With the recent revelations he should forgo it this one night, yes? He should stay sharp, focused, in case war came to this little corner of civilization.

But no, and he dropped to the bed as the impatient pain bloomed and burst, because there was that other thing, there was Miranda—

‘ _I left when they brought a coffin to the square. They opened it up and in it was the body of a woman. She’d been shot in the temple.’_

He wrapped his arms around his body, curling into himself.

Miranda had been here all this time, living less than five hundred miles away and he never knew. Peter had lied to him, his father had lied to him. They must have lied to her as well, he realized with another bloom of pain. Had she known, she would have come for him, no matter her new situation, no matter how difficult the journey. She had always had been that way, honest, protective, _fierce._

Whatever her reason for traveling with the pirate, Peter’s man had killed her, murdered her, and then Peter had displayed her body like a common criminal for the people to judge and jeer and—

He tried to weep, hugging his own body, tried to feel more than fury and helpless rage but it was too much, too—

He reached for the tea and poured a cup. He drank it quickly, then poured another. Two were all he’d ever allowed himself but without pause, he poured and drank a third.

The laudanum acted quickly and he fell back to the bed as the pain muted to a dull ache.

It was a matter of will, he thought musily, staring up at the canopy. One continued through sheer _will._ It would do no good to end it because the promised redemption would then be forever out of reach. If he wanted to see James again in the life to come, he needed to stay strong and take each blow as it fell.

He covered his eyes with his arm, for once letting loose his stranglehold on longing. If only James were here. Just his presence would be a comfort because James helped in all ways. He eased the loneliness, the need for another man’s touch, the need to be understood in all things. He’d say that strength was just a matter of doing the next thing. That Thomas could do this because he _had_ to and it was no good blaming a young girl for something that was clearly not her fault.

He nodded, grief abating, determination growing. He’d do it. He’d continue and in the morning, he’d go to Abigail and apologize for his behavior because he’d been cruel and she’d been through enough and…

He fell asleep that way, still fully clothed, still hiding behind his arm.

***

In the end, he had no chance to apologize for he was woken before dawn by Cameron with news that Abigail had crept out sometime during the night and—taking a horse and her portmanteau—was gone.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

“I can’t see her!” Billy called from his place on the fo’c’s’le. “We outran her!”

“We damn well better have,” James growled, spyglass fixed on a dark spot on the horizon. He looked up at the sails. Full out and strained at the seams with a stiff wind that was forcing them northeast when he was desperate to turn south. He shouted over his shoulder, “Keep your course, Mr. DeGroot! Don’t let up!”

They’d caught sight of the _Sovereign_ east of Watlings Island. She appeared to be heading north and when they tried to evade her, their wind died at a crucial moment. Dead in the water, they had watched as she got closer. By some strange turn of events, at the stroke of noon, the sails began to flutter and lift. By ten past, they were on their way again, running north by northwest.

That was a full hour ago; it seemed his luck, and the speed of the Man O’ War, had held. He scanned the horizon, casting about for anything that looked like a ship.

“Well?”

Silver was practically breathing down his neck and he growled, “Give me a moment.”

“Yes, but—”

He turned on his heel. “Will give me a fucking moment?”

Silver backed up, waving his arms. “Don’t get mad at _me._ I was just asking the question even _he_ wants an answer to.” He jerked his head, pointing to the dark figure at James’s back.

“I’ll give you an answer as soon as I’m sure.” He surveyed the waters once more, then closed the spyglass with a snap. “We’re in the clear.”

“For the time being,” Vane muttered.

He turned. Vane was lounging against the rail, smoking a cheroot. “I hope you’re not suggesting that was anything but a success.”

“Not at all. I, in turn, am hoping you have a better plan than running from any ship that appears on the horizon.”

James clenched his jaw and took a step forward. “You did realize there’d be consequences to your actions, didn’t you? Aiming Charles Town’s own batteries on Charles Town was bound to make them angry. The Royal Navy won’t let this go—they’ll have every able-bodied captain and every available ship on their way out of the New York harbor by sundown.”

Vane threw the cheroot overboard and straightened up. “If that’s the case, maybe you shouldn’t have—”

“Captains, captains,” Silver spoke soothingly, stepping between them. “You both did splendidly, eluding the _Sovereign_ and what not _._ Let’s not spoil it by animosity. Especially,” he added, patting James’s chest, “when it might get us killed.”

James looked down at Silver’s hand, then up to the man himself. With a small, apologetic smile, Silver removed his hand. “And by ‘us,’ you mean _you_ , of course.”

Silver shrugged. “I assumed that was implied.”

Tension gone, he shook his head. Though he was a slippery snake, there was no arguing that Silver made a good buffer. He and Vane weren’t at each other’s throats, but the possibility was there. What had made for a good partnership in a time of need would not hold out in a time of peace.

“What are we going to do?” Vane asked.

It was the question of the day and he answered slowly, “We know the location of _Urca’s_ gold has been exposed to a new party and that new party has undoubtedly tried for the wreck or is going to.”

“Then, we’re going to Florida?” Silver asked with a frown.

He looked out over the ocean. It was two hours from sundown; the _Sovereign_ was between them and Nassau. “The problem is,” he continued softly, “without Eleanor’s influence, Nassau will tear itself apart.”

“Then,” Silver said, glancing between James and Vane, “we’re going back to Nassau?”

“No.” He shook his head, decision made. “The gold has to come first. Without it, we have no chance of stopping the chaos that will erupt with Eleanor gone. With it…” He looked at them both and shrugged.

“I have an alternate plan,” Vane muttered, giving James a sidelong look.

Here it came. “And that is?”

“We find the nearest ship, we board her, we take her. Then, you and I go our separate ways.”

“To what purpose?”

“I’ll rescue Eleanor. You’ll get your gold.”

He almost laughed. “You can’t be serious?”

“Can’t I?”

“You’ll go after Hume’s ship? You, with your handful of men and they with their seventy-five guns?”

“Yes.”

“It’s insane. Never mind trials and hangings, you and any men you take with you will be summarily shot and tossed overboard once you’re captured.”

He expected Vane to give him some cock and bull argument along the lines that he didn’t expect to live long anyway, but just nodded and murmured, “Most likely.”

“We don’t have the time.”

“Correction: Eleanor doesn’t have the time and I’m going after her.”

He opened his mouth to snarl a refusalwhen Vane looked over at Silver and jerked his head. “Go.”

Silver glanced at James and then back at Vane. “Go? Where will I go?”

“To the bow, to the galley, to the fucking shitter, I don’t care, just _go!”_

Silver looked to James again. He nodded.

Silver being Silver, tried again, “Captain, I’m the quartermaster and as such, my duties allow me—”

“Your duties allow you jack-all,” Vane growled. “This isn’t ship’s business; it’s private.”

James gave Vane a sidelong glance, trying to see the angle by which he was being steered because there was something going on here, something new and probably not pleasant. He nodded to Silver. “Leave us.” After a moment, Silver hobbled off, awkwardly descending the ladder with the help of DeGroot, waiting on the weather deck.

“Well?” he asked once they were completely alone.

Vane nodded to Silver, now standing in midships, staring at the both of them. “You’re too easy on him.”

“He has the right, at least for now. He told me what transpired while we were gone. If he had given those ten names to Jenks, the rest of my men, including some of your own men, would now be rotting on the bottom of the Charles Town harbor. I know this; the men know this.”

“Hmm,” Vane muttered reluctantly.

James waited and when Vane said nothing more, he gestured to the ship. “If that’s all, time is short and I need to plot—”

“You said, _‘You can’t be serious,’_ ” Vane interrupted him. “You said, _‘It’s insane.’_ ”

He frowned, completely at sea. Where was Vane going with this? “I did and it is.”

“And the _Maria Aleyne_? What was that? Was it well thought out? Shrewd?”

He could feel the planks beneath his shoes, the wind on his cheeks, but still, it was as if the world had stopped turning. Vane was watching him with those hawk-sharp eyes of his, examining the wound he’d just dealt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vane waved that away. “Don’t bother. I was there.”

“Where? Where were you?”

Vane stepped close, his expression turning speculative. “I had heard the stories, of course. About you and the _Maria Aleyne._ How you took her after hunting her for months, all the while promising your men a fat prize.” Vane smiled. “But there was no prize, was there?”

He said nothing.

“I thought about it, about what it meant because you don’t make a move without knowing the next five. You risk losing the trust of your crew, you kill an old man and his wife, for what? A few trinkets?” Vane leaned back against the rail, clasping his hands together. “I gave it no notice because we all know how you are. Until one of my crew heard the rest of the tale. How the man was none other than the Earl of Ashbourne and Lord Proprietor to these islands, Lord Alfred Hamilton. How the woman was his wife.”

Still, he said nothing.

Vane shrugged. “Even then it meant little to me. What do I care about fucking Lord Alfred Hamilton? Until I heard _another_ story, told by a friend to a friend to a friend. How Richard Guthrie, while recovering inland with your Mrs. Barlow, finds a painting of an English lord and his wife. The painting was titled, _Lord and Lady Hamilton.”_

Vane waited and James said through gritted teeth, “Go on.”

“I went to the tavern for Eleanor. With you dead, she’d finally be done with you and your fucking plan. But you weren’t alone. You were with her, with Mrs. Barlow. I hear you, I hear her, and suddenly it all makes sense.”

He clenched his fists and jaw. In all the commotion he hadn’t thought that day through. “So, you’re my Polonius?” he asked, unsure what he was feeling—rage, shame, relief?

Vane frowned. “I don’t know who the fuck that is, but you know what I heard. You know what I learned.” Vane glanced quickly at the crew and then back to James. “‘ _Thomas,’_ was it?”

He ignored the chill that went up his spine and asked, “What do you want?”

“Not what you think I want.”

So, rage it was, and he gave a bitter laugh, throttling the desire to wipe that smirk off Vane’s lips. “What do you think I think you want?”

“I think you think I’ll use this as blackmail. I think you think I’ll use it as leverage to get more shares, more power.”

“Won’t you?”

“No. And I won’t use it as a way to depose you.”

“I’d like to see you try. The men don’t care who I fuck.”

“No,” Vane murmured, “but they’d care if they knew that you lost your reason and put them all at risk. For _him_. That everything you’ve done was for him. They already distrust you—that new knowledge would send them over the edge. Again.”

He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to see whether the men were smiling in his direction or frowning because Vane was right. His standing with the men, tested and tested, was stable, but only if he found the gold. If not, who knew what they’d do? “What is the point of all this? Feeling the need for a heart to heart? Want me to spread my legs for you?”

Vane didn’t laugh or sneer as James thought he might—he just shook his head and said softly, “Your virtue, such as it may be, is safe with me but I need you to know that when I go after Eleanor, I expect no interference from you. We’ll find the right ship, we’ll take her, and then you will let me leave with the men of my choosing. When Eleanor is safe, I’ll return her to Nassau and your men to you.”

He thought about it, the possibilities, the pitfalls. Contrary to Vane’s assurance, this was a form of blackmail but a form that worked both ways—by showing his hand, Vane had also shown his throat. Eleanor was Vane’s weakness, more so than ever before and he’d use that weakness if he could. He nodded. “Very well. As soon as we run down a new ship, you go your way, I’ll go mine. We’ll meet up in Nassau as soon as we achieve our objectives.”

“If someone hasn’t gotten to the gold first.”

He shrugged. “If Eleanor isn’t already dead.”

Vane’s expression hardened but all he said was, “Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Who?’

“Silver. He’s a lying, thieving snake; you’re basing all your plans on his word.”

“I know how to handle him.”

He turned to the ladder but it seemed Vane wasn’t quite done. He grabbed James’s arm and leaned close. “Going after Eleanor isn’t insanity,” he murmured. “It’s something I _must_ do. You of all people should understand.”

It was an uncomfortable moment, the realization that yes, for once he knew why Vane was going to do what he was going to do. Still… “In the end, she’ll have your heart on a platter. You know that, right?”

“I know it.”

“And it’s worth it?”

“Was he worth it? Your career? Your good name?”

He didn’t answer but glanced out at the endless ocean, afraid of what Vane would see.

Vane nodded as if he had and shoved by, putting a foot on the ladder.

“Vane?”

Vane stopped and looked up at him.

James leaned over him to whisper sincerely, “If you ever mention Thomas again, I’ll slit you from cock to gullet.”

This time he got a smile, wolf-teeth and all.

***

Silver, of course, began his barrage the minute James retired to his cabin.

“But what if you’re swept overboard? It happens all the time and a storm is coming. This big plan you and Captain Vane are keeping to yourself is bound to fail if one of you is lost.” Silver waved his crutch, almost falling over. “How will you achieve your ends?”

He glanced out the window at the cloudless sky, then pulled the map closer. “You’re worried about me? How touching.”

Silver shook his head. “Of course, I’m not worried about you.”

He looked up from under his brow. “So, that was a threat?”

Silver shook his head more violently and repeated, “Of course not. I just—” He trailed off and scanned the cabin as if it might give him an answer. “I’m just looking after the best interests of my crew.”

“Very well,” he compromised because Silver was like a jackdaw—he’d just keep picking at it until a sliver of the secret was exposed and if he ever found out, a missing leg and the crew’s affections wouldn’t save him. And James didn’t want to have to kill a valuable member of the crew, again. “Vane told me why he wants to go after Eleanor.”

Silver frowned. “Because he’s in love with her? That’s the big secret?”

“It was to me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then believe this: I’m busy trying to save us, to save Nassau and I can’t do that if I flap about and pry into other people’s business.”

Silver furrowed his brow; he obviously didn’t believe a word James said.

He bent over the compass again. “You once told me that it must be awful being me, implying that my concern over what the men thought of me was a weakness. Have you ever thought of what it means to be you?”

Silver hopped closer. “I can’t say that I have.”

“This insatiable curiosity of yours, this inability to keep your mouth shut—doesn’t it get exhausting, always scrambling for the next thing?”

“It has its moments.”

“Was one of those moments over there?” He nodded to the table where Jenks had laid into Silver. There was still blood in the fissures of the wood. When Silver didn’t say anything, he murmured, “Just because you didn’t answer doesn’t mean you didn’t answer.”

“No. I wouldn’t call that a moment _.”_

He looked up. Silver was staring at him, lips tight, face white. He sat back. “Sorry,” he said, meaning it though he knew some of Silver’s shocked anger was probably playacting. “I know losing your leg was not your choice but I told you, you’ve made these men care about you and now you’re theirs. They’d do almost anything for you, including saving you from yourself.”

Silver squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. “You make it sound like a kind of prison sentence, this caring.”

“It is.”

Silver cocked his head. “Is that why you’ve always held the crew at arm’s length? So you could leave at any time?”

James didn’t answer.

“Just because you didn’t answer me doesn’t mean you didn’t—”

“You can either make yourself useful and organize the maps or you can go.”

“Don’t you need help in deciding what route to take?”

He picked up the compass. “No.”

“It’s part of my job, isn’t it? To help you map out wherever we’re going?”

“No, and if you don’t know the duties of a quartermaster, the crew isn’t going to be happy with you.”

“I’m theirs,’” Silver muttered absently.

James kept his eyes firmly on the map. After a moment, Silver left.

Once he was alone, he shook his head. Dealing with Silver was like dealing a troublesome hound. A deceitful, vocal, troublesome hound.

***

He had their new course mapped out by nightfall. It was a comparatively easy choice—without the need to make a decision based on the quality and size of the prize, he was free to pick the quickest, most undefended route.

Afterwards, he met with Vane, Silver and Scott to discuss the course; by ten, he was in bed.

With both Silver and the vanguard returned to their own quarters, the cabin seemed almost cavernous. He had never understood the need for such a large space but then, the Spaniards added an extra flourish to everything they did.

One hand cradling his head, he stroked the elaborate gold-leafed curve of the berth’s support with his thumb, watching as a few tiny flakes fell to the floor. If he didn’t get the treasure, he wouldn’t be able to see to repairs and soon all the gold leaf and paint would be gone, destroyed by the uncompromising sea air. It was a sad thought, made sadder because he couldn’t honestly say he gave a damn about the ship. She was a means to an end, nothing more.

He sighed and turned on his back, then pulled his book from under his pillow. Instead of opening it up, he rested it on his chest and stared unseeingly up.

So, Vane knew about Thomas. Maybe not everything, not the details, but enough to be a problem if it came to it. He doubted it would. Vane was a conniving, merciless murderer but he had a code of ethics, as obtuse and fractured as they were. He could have used his newfound knowledge days ago, just as he could have stayed on Nassau and let events play out.

It was doubtful he had anything to worry about so why did it feel as if his world had turned upside down again? Just because someone besides Miranda knew? Vane’s words were just words—he’d faced such condemnation before.

Only, Vane hadn’t been condemning, had he? If anything, he’d been understanding, almost sympathetic, and just the memory of that almost sympathy made James’s gut curl. He turned on his side once more.

Abuse he could take, criticism and vilification he could take and return with gusto, but sympathy was something else.

_‘You were told it was shameful and part of you believed it.’_

He wasn’t ashamed. Loving Thomas had been as artless as breathing and as heady, much like his reaction upon entering the sea for the first time. Stepping into the foamy surf, gasping at the force of it, the surprise of it. Then wading in and diving, feeling the water wrap around and enclose; it had been breathtaking but not breath _taking._

Thomas had been that for him, his boundless sea, and he _wasn’t_ ashamed.

Was he?

He’d been maddened, consumed, obsessed; he’d subsisted on all three for almost a decade. Were they only to cover the fact that he’d hated himself for his weakness, his misstep?

No. He’d acted according to his nature and he knew that if Thomas walked in right now and looked at him with those clear blue eyes, he wouldn’t respond any differently.

All these long years, he’d ignored any looks thrown his way by women and men, only allowing himself the comfort of Miranda, though it had been an unbalanced arrangement. She had provided brief moments of respite, brief moments of fantasy that it was Thomas he was with, Thomas who murmured his name.

If he felt any shame, it was in the way he’d abused her trust. She had always wanted more of him, wanted the parts that were no longer his to give. Reticent as always, she’d never asked the one question that would have torn them apart. Perhaps that was because she wouldn’t have been able to endure his answer.

He suddenly wished she were by his side so he could answer that unasked question. ‘ _Yes, I do love you,’_ he’d say and then he’d ask her forgiveness for the sacrifices she’d made for him. Any other woman would have left long ago.

But she was gone as Thomas was gone and now he was truly alone. He had his crew, this ship and his purpose and nothing more.

A loud clang from the gun deck startled him out of his thoughts and he cocked his head, listening. The sound wasn’t repeated and he settled back down in a strangely better mood because he had one other thing to add to his list and that were his memories. Come what may, no one could take them from him and he stroked the book as one particularly happy scene resurfaced, one that always made him smile though it had been a turning point of sorts, and he heard it again as…

_…the clash of metal on metal rings through the salon, the sound resonating off the vaulted ceiling._

_“Are you satisfied?” Thomas calls out._

_He grins. “If you think dancing about the floor with you for five minutes is enough to convince me your rusty skills have improved, you are sadly mistaken.”_

_“Five minutes? We’ve been at it for an hour!”_

_“And you haven’t shown me anything beyond the fact that you’ve the longer reach and the better weapon.”_

_Challenged, Thomas advances, attacking ruthlessly, driving James across the length of the salon until he is caught against the silk-paneled wall._

_“Well?” Thomas asks, his face and throat shiny with sweat._

_“Better,” James teases, sure it will goad Thomas into another turn._

_But Thomas doesn’t move and his expression changes. He glances down at James’s mouth and says, “Do you know you’re the only one that asks me to do more than I think I can?”_

_In a heartbeat the mood shifts from that of playful aggression to something more serious and he feels a familiar hollow pain. “That’s because I’m not in your father’s employ. I can say what I want.”_

_His jest falls flat. Thomas’s gaze shutters and he nods and steps back, a precursor to retreat._

_James takes him by the waist, careful of his rapier and Thomas’s short sword. “No, that’s not the real reason. It’s not.” It’s an ugly, searing thing, this desire to keep Thomas safe, to make him happy. Thomas has told him of his childhood, the many houses, the many servants and the equally many friends._

_But what he hasn’t spoken of—what is behind every self-deprecating word and gesture—is how lonely he had been. He’d had everything and nothing, and all James wants is to make it better, make it right._

_“It’s because you challenge me, too,” he murmurs, searching for the words that will chase the clouds from Thomas’s gaze. “My life has been only people on the perimeter, jeering at every stumble, claiming every success as their own. And then you come along and ask me to walk by your side while offering no assistance, nor asking for any. That has a value for me beyond compare.”_

_Thomas’s eyes widen and without warning, he presses James against the wall and kisses him with no grace, no skill._

_James accepts the kisses with an eye on the door, the empty gallery above, remembering,_ ‘In my experience there is an inverse relationship between the degree of one’s happiness and the concern one suffers for what the neighbors think.”

_“What is it?” Thomas asks, noticing his distraction._

_“It’s nothing,” he says, dropping his rapier to the ground. He slips his hands under Thomas’s wet shirt, giving in to the delirious happiness that makes his body burn. “Nothing.”_

***

His plan went accordingly and twelve hours later they came across a sloop running thirty miles due south of Nassau.

“The _Swift Jane_ ,” James said, peering through the glass. “Will she do?” He handed the glass to Vane.

“Her belly is deep in the water,” Vane murmured as he inspected her. “Probably loaded with sugar for London.”

“Probably.”

“She’s fast.” Vane returned the spyglass. “She’ll do.”

***

The _Swift Jane_ gave it her best but she was no match for the Man o’ War and they bordered without incident.

As a test of Silver’s skills, James watched from the quarterdeck and sent Silver with Vane to reconnoiter with the _Jane’s_ crew. Vane gave his offer, garnering fifteen men. Silver, however, was in fine form and ended up with twenty-seven. As he finished his count, he looked up at James and smiled. Ass.

If it had been a normal boarding, they would have left the _Jane’s_ crew to go their way, thirty-two short. As it wasn’t a normal boarding, they had to get rid of the holdouts. Vane wanted to shoot them and dump the bodies overboard. James argued that it was a waste of bullets so they off-loaded some of the sugar and then piled the men in one of the _Jane’s_ longboats and told them to row like the devil if they wanted to live.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t have kept all of the sugar?” Silver called out as he climbed the ladder. “It would have fetched a handsome price.”

“We don’t have room. Without our consort, we’ll only be able to retrieve a portion of the gold as it is. We’ll take their livestock and any food they have on board but that’s it.”

“But what about—”

“Mr. Silver, you need to be down there,” he said, nodding to midships, “making our new additions welcome. I’ll be down soon to take their oaths.” When Silver didn’t move, he added, “Inquire after their skills. We could use another carpenter and cooper.”

With a grumble under his breath, Silver did as he was told.

When Vane reboarded, he invited him to his cabin for a final word. He poured two glasses of the good brandy and slid one across the table. “In case their stock is shit.”

Vane snorted but drank it all the same. “So,” he said, relaxing to his usual sprawl, “any advice on how to handle the _Scarborough_?”

James had to chuckle. “Seriously? You’re asking for my advice?”

Vane shrugged. “You were once one of them, weren’t you?”

He gave that the attention it deserved. “If it were me,” he mused, stroking his beard, “I wouldn’t bother trying to intimidate them. They out-gun and out-man you in every way and they know it.”

“Then what?”

He stared down at his map of the Atlantic, at the vast space between the New World and old. “If it were me,” he said thoughtfully, “and I had the faster ship, I’d get around her and force her to dance to my tune.”

Vane got out his coin and began running it through his fingers. James knew he was struggling between the desire to ask for clarification and the need to keep the upper hand by staying silent.

James gave him the latter; he needed this to work, too. “The one thing the Royal Navy despises above everything else are pirates, _us_. That hatred blinds them to common sense. The one _area_ they are weakest is their adherence to routine and ritual. That is where you will dominate.” He waited, because it wasn’t good to give Vane everything he needed.

Vane’s jaw worked and finally, he growled, “And then?”

“A ruse. You get before them and set up a commotion. Have one of your more respectable men pretend to be a prisoner just escaped from the hold. We’ll find some good clothing, the kind a wealthy lord or merchant would wear.” The idea was forming as he spoke. “Have that man make for the bulwark, have him signal the _Scarborough._ If she’s close enough, they’ll hear his cries as well as see his signal.”

Vane’s lips bent in a smile. James returned the half smile and leaned close. “Then, to force their hand, have that man leap over the rail and make for the _Scarborough._ Once he’s on board, it’s up to him. It’s a two month voyage; he should be able to get a message to Eleanor fairly quickly.”

“What will that message entail?”

“That you’re only hours behind. All he and Eleanor will have to do is find their chance and take it. A longboat will do, or in a pinch, they can steal a skiff.”

“You want Eleanor to make a jump for it?” Vane asked doubtfully.

James nodded. “She can do it. You’ll pick them up and get them the hell out of there.”

Vane nodded slowly. “It’s risky.”

“It is.”

“There is the chance of sharks.”

“Doubtful in those cold waters.”

“The _Scarborough_ might see us.”

“They might.”

“What about the weather?”

“Your infiltrator will have to use his best judgment.”

Vane sat back and rubbed his jaw. “It’s a shame your quartermaster has only one leg.”

James nodded, also relaxing into his chair. Silver would have been the best choice with his ability to talk his way out of any situation. Silver, also, would be the most untrustworthy; if he saw an opportunity for gain, he’d sell Vane out to Hume and think it a good day’s work. And that would mean no more Eleanor, no more Nassau.

“My men won’t do,” Vane added. “They’re too rough. What about the doctor? Howell, is it?”

James’s shook his head. “No. I won’t be without a doctor, not with what might be waiting for us on that beach.”

“The carpenter’s mate? The one that never shuts up?”

He raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t realized Vane had gotten to know his crew quite that well but he probably should have—the man was devious to the core. “Mr. Reed?” Jem Reed was a fairly new recruit who looked much younger than he probably was. Slim with an innocent way about him, Mr. Gates had categorically put him off limits to the crew when he’d joined the _Walrus_ back in the spring. “It’s a possibility. He has no tattoos or scars and is, as you say, gregarious. He’ll need some practice, though.”

“We push off in less than an hour. Have your quartermaster give him some acting lessons.”

“Agreed.” He stood up and shouted, “Mr. Silver!” The door instantly opened as James knew it would. It was a good thing the paneling was three inches thick. And that Silver didn’t know about the crack in the far port seam that was large enough to allow a small amount of sound to escape.

“Gentlemen?” Silver said, glancing from James to Vane. “How can I be of service?”

Vane stood, as well. “You can be of service by finding that boy, Jem Reed, and teaching him the thing you’re most talented at.”

Silver frowned and glanced at James again. “And what would that be?”

“Lying,” James and Vane answered in unison.

***

The Man o’ War and the _Swift Jane_ parted ways before sundown. After some quick deliberation over his maps, James ordered DeGroot to set a northwesterly course. They would have to fight the weather a portion of the time but the route would allow them to anchor just south of the _Urca_ wreck.

“Sir?”

He looked up to find Scott at the cabin door.

“Yes?”

“The men are curious as to what the plan is.”

“Where is Mr. Silver?”

“With Billy on the gun deck.”

“Can you get him for me? And Mr. Scott?”

Scott paused at the door, one hand on the jamb.

“Bring Billy, as well. You all need to hear Mr. Silver’s news.”

***

The weather held and they swept between the Berry and Abaco islands unmolested. Twice, they spied a sail on the horizon, twice they gave the other ship wide berth. The second time, Silver joined him at the rail.

“She’s Dutch,” Silver said heavily.

“Yes,” James answered, watching the ship through his glass. He’d run across her before—she was an older Carrack by the name of the _Adelaar._

“I imagine she’s carrying spices or sugar.”

James sighed already knowing where Silver was heading. “She probably is.”

Silver gripped the rail, urging, “Then let’s go get her! Can you imagine what even half that cargo would bring back in Nassau?”

“I can. It will bring us nothing if there’s no one to sell it to. There is no Guthrie in Nassau, remember?”

“Of course, I remember,” Silver said, rubbing his brow. “But maybe we don’t need Eleanor. Maybe we can act on our own behalf. We can take the shipment and sell it anywhere—Port Royal, Rum Cay. It wouldn’t take any time and would bring a nice price for the men.”

“No. We make for the wreck of the _Urca_. If the gold is still there, we take as much as we can carry. We return to Nassau, hide it, then return to retrieve the remainder.”

“And if it’s not there?”

“Then we return to Nassau and find our thief.”

Silver began to scratch at the wood of the rail with his thumb. “It’s been weeks since we found the wreck. Who’s to say it’s still there? My way gives the men a fallback prize.”

He turned to Silver. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Silver smiled crookedly and shook his head. “I don’t see how that is possible.”

James hesitated, then changed the subject, “We’ll be turning due north soon. How are the men? Are there any problems I should know about?”

“They’re fine,” came Silver’s reluctant answer. “There’s some talk of how they’ll spend their shares though I think everyone is waiting to see if the gold is even there. Mostly they just want to know the plan.”

“They’ll learn it soon enough.”

“So you’ve said.” Silver hesitated, then said, “Captain? What did you and Vane discuss the other day?”

This again. “He told you—it wasn’t ship’s business, it was personal.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, don’t believe me—that is your choice.”

“Was it about the gold?”

“No.”

“Was it about the fort?”

“No.”

“Was it about—”

He turned and said plainly, “Mr. Silver, I am not going to tell you. I am _never_ going to tell you. If you want to ask Charles Vane when he returns, you have my blessing, but if he takes your head, do not blame me.”

“If I lose my head to Charles Vane, I won’t be blaming anyone as I will be dead.”

He sighed. “Tell the men I will be addressing them tonight. We’ll be upon the Bimini Islands by nightfall and should make the Florida coast by noon tomorrow.”

“And mess?”

“We’ll eat the last of the beef and the oranges as a treat.”

He expected more, but Silver just turned and left.

He waited until Silver went below, then followed down to the deck where DeGroot was teaching Mr. Hansford the finer points of helmsmanship. “Have you seen Mr. Scott?”

DeGroot jerked his head aft. “He’s with Billy and Barnsley in the hold. They’re making room for the prize.”

Hansford grinned and rocked on his heels and James could almost see the thoughts of gold and drink and women dancing through his head.

***

He found the men in the aft side of the hold. Barnsley and Billy were rearranging the provisions while Scott watched, ledger in his hand. “How goes it?”

“It will be a tight fit,” Scott said. “We figured it will be best to keep the gold in one place, so we are moving everything that can be moved.”

“I think we should dump the pork,” Billy said as he and Barnsley strained to move the barrel. “We can buy more when we get back to Nassau.”

“No,” James said. “Until we see that gold, everything stays. Mr. Scott?”

“Yes?”

“Can I see you in my cabin?”

***

James poured a glass of wine and tipped the bottle toward Scott, asking silently if he wanted any.

Scott shook his head. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure.” He held the glass up to the light. “You know we passed a Dutch merchant ship a while back?”

Scott nodded. “The _Adelaar._ She was bound for home. _”_

“She was, and I had an interesting conversation with Mr. Silver about her. He tried to convince me it would be in the men’s best interest to take the cargo.”

Scott frowned. “Why would he want that? Whatever she was carrying, even if it were allspice or slaves, would be no match for the gold.”

“No, it would not.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Yes,” James said slowly. The wine was thick and it coated the sides of the glass. “He reminded me that the gold might no longer be ours. That’s the second time he’s done so today.” He took a sip.

“That seems as if he knows something we do not.”

James nodded, the wine sour on his tongue. “Silver said Vincent sold the secret of the treasure to another party and that we should make haste to Florida to intercept that same party.”

“Yes.”

“He also told us that he didn’t know who Vincent sold the information _to._ ”

“Yes?”

“But what if he knew the identity of the party? What if this need to rush to Florida has simply been a way to give the other ship time to leave Nassau and then return?”

“Why would he do that? If the men find out, they’ll have his head.”

“Why does Mr. Silver do any thing?”

Scott nodded slowly. “Greed.” He thought for the moment. “Then this attempt at taking this other ship is another delaying tactic?”

“And a way to assuage the men’s anger once we get to that beach and find the gold gone.” He stroked his beard. He hated intrigue, hated subterfuge, though he he’d used both to good effect, but this… 

“What do you mean to do?”

“There is nothing else _to_ do. We’re a half a day away and we must confirm the gold is either there or not there.”

“I could take a small complement of men and return to Nassau via a longboat.”

James was already shaking his head. “No. We would be there and back again by the time you made it.”

“Then we continue on our course?”

“We continue on our course. And,” he added, swallowing the rest of the wine in one gulp, “we watch Mr. Silver like a hawk.”

“Agreed.”

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Wadmalaw Island_

 

Foggy from the over excess of laudanum, it wasn’t until late morning that Thomas felt clear-headed enough to think about the situation. After several cups of strong tea and a certain amount of self-recrimination, he decided to go after Abigail himself. He went out to the barn where Cameron was working and requested a horse.

“No,” Cameron said, not looking up from the stall he was cleaning.

“I beg your pardon?” Thomas asked, eyebrow raised. He shouldn’t have been surprised by Cameron’s rudeness, but he was.

“No. I know what you want her for and if it’s as the pastor says, then Charles Town is too dangerous a place to be, never mind the pirates who are likely combing the coast for easy prey.”

“What about Miss Ashe? Won’t it be too dangerous for her, as well?”

Cameron stopped and straightened up. “Aye.”

“Then shouldn’t I go after her to make sure she survived the journey?”

“No,” Cameron said after a moment, clearly unhappy. “I’ll go.”

“You need to stay here to protect Mrs. Cameron and the girls in case something happens.”

“Mrs. Cameron don’t need any protection. She has a musket and knows how to use it.”

“Then we can go together.”

His words were a challenge and Cameron gave him a piercing glance before nodding. “Very well. Be ready by noon.” He looked Thomas up and down. “Your clothes are fine but you’ll need boots—there might be snakes.”

Thomas left to do as ordered, thinking he should have told Cameron not to speak to him so, wondering why he hadn’t.

***

Thomas rode the first leg of the journey in silence.

After his conversation with Cameron, he’d gone into the house and told Mrs. Cameron of the impending journey, then requested a pair of boots. He wasn’t prepared for her reaction. Telling him he wasn’t fit for such a venture, she hurried away, muttering under her breath something about, _‘…we’ll see who’s going where with who…’_

Non-plussed, he went to Peter’s suite and, feeling as if the room was watching him, found a pair of old hunting boots. They were a tight but serviceable. Stamping on them as if that would make them fit better, he went to his rooms and got out his small stash of coins. Peter had given him a purse of cash that first year—he’d spent none of it, other than to give the Camerons small holiday gifts at Yuletide. Not sure how much he’d need, he took a small handful and stuffed it in his pockets.

When he got to the barn, Cameron had just finished saddling two horses while Mrs. Cameron was filling a satchel with food and water. The Camerons had been arguing—she was red-faced and tight-lipped, clearly upset. Thomas wanted to embrace her but settled for saying quietly that they’d be fine.

It was ridiculous, the way the Camerons had been treating him and he thought on it as he rode behind Cameron along the north road. He was a grown man and could easily have undertaken the mission on his own. He’d never traveled the bridge road before, yes, just as he never crossed the wilderness on horseback, but others did it regularly.

However, by the time they’d reached the northernmost point of the Wadmalaw River, some two miles from the house, his irritation had cooled and he was glad of Cameron’s companionship. The trail was rough going. They had to walk the horses around the marshy ground and wade across creeks and one shallow river. At one such place, they struggled through a section that was dotted with mud holes and he said, half to himself, “I hope Miss Ashe managed this.”

“She did,” Cameron answered gruffly. “That one has gumption.”

He frowned. “Gumption? I am unfamiliar with the term.”

“You know: spirit, determination.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “She has that, indeed.”

“Must’ve got it from her mother.”

He stepped around a low-growing bramble. “How so?”

“Because she didn’t get it from her pa.”

“Cameron—”

“I mean no insult. I’ve known Peter Ashe since he landed in these parts; he wouldn’t never have the courage to ride through this country at night.”

Once again, he thought to censor, once again he held his tongue. Besides, Cameron was right—Peter hadn’t been one for anything dangerous. Still… “I’m uncomfortable talking about Lord Ashe in this manner.”

Cameron stopped and turned, giving Thomas a glimmer of a smile. “That’s because you’re a true gentleman. Unlike some.”

“I—”

“But you’ve the right of it,” Cameron added with a firm nod of his head. “We can’t be standing around gabbing all day.”

Cameron started off again leaving Thomas to catch up, almost speechless with surprise.

_***_

They reached the Stono River quay while the sun was still high in the sky.

The ferryman was in the middle of closing the crossing for the day in case, _‘Those bastard pirates think to come up the Stono in the black of black.’_ Thomas convinced him to board their horses and rent them a skiff by telling of their mission and by passing him a silver crown.

The ferryman looked at the coin, then up at Thomas, finally shrugging and tucking the coin in his pocket.

“Do you think he thought I’d stolen this money?” Thomas asked as soon as they’d boarded the skiff and were heading east with the tide.

“I think he thought that the clothes didn’t match the accent,” Cameron answered. “That there was Francis Graves. He’s no fool. His family has been living in these parts since olden times and he’s seen some sights, that I can tell you.”

It was an edge, a lead-in to the questions he’d always wanted to ask. “And your family, Mr. Cameron? How long have you been in the colonies?”

Cameron looked back. “My father came over to work for Governor William Berkeley in ‘45. I was born in James City County as was my brother and sister.”

“Wasn’t Lord Berkeley the one ousted from his position?” It had been a nine-days wonder when he was a boy. He remembered overhearing his father denouncing Berkeley to his guests one night at supper, saying it had served Berkeley well for putting heathen Indians above his own kind.

“Aye, he was, after that coward Nate Bacon took offense to his ways and turned against him.”

“What year was that, exactly?” Even with the tide, the rowing was strenuous; he could already feel the ache in his shoulders and back.

“In ‘76. They burned Berkeley’s plantation, they burned the capitol. All because he took the side of some foreigners.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Now you are.”

“Now, I am.”

***

It was a result of his situation that he hadn’t quite thought his undertaking through. Yes, he’d planned on how he might get to Charles Town, what route would be the quickest, what he would do when he found Abigail. What he hadn’t planned on—indeed, what he _couldn’t_ plan on—was his reaction when they rowed up the Ashley to find the city in ruins. They paused, both looking up.

His visits to Charles Town had been four in total. He’d never cared much for the place, finding it rough and confusing. But now, viewing it from the boat and seeing the destruction and a row of cloth-covered corpses, he felt no small measure of grief. Unthinkable that such a thing could happen. Unthinkable that it had come to this.

“We should tie up soon,” Cameron said. “The Lord’s house is best reached by foot.”

“I don’t want to go to his house.”

Cameron looked over his shoulder. “Where do you want to go?”

“The docks.”

Cameron squinted, then nodded. “You think she’s off back to London?”

“No, I think something much worse. I think she’s going to look for Captain Flint and I think she’ll either try to stow away on a ship or purchase passage to Nassau.”

Cameron’s eyes had narrowed with shock. “Now why would she want to do a fool thing like that?”

Thomas shook his head, murmuring, “I do not know.”

“Well then,” Cameron answered, scratching his jaw. “Our best bet would be the Independent Dock on the Cooper. They only berth small ships for merchants and the like. The other dockmasters won’t give her the time of day, being she’s a girl.”

Thomas watched as another body was removed from the rubble, stroking his aching palms absently. All day, Abigail’s puzzling comments from the night before had been running through his mind but maybe he was wrong? Maybe she had indeed returned to Peter’s house and was now taking her afternoon tea? “Douglass?” he said, forgetting formality. “I realize you were not privy to Miss Ashe’s secret thoughts, but do you think we should instead go to Lord Ashe’s house? Do you think I’m wrong? It will take time to get there, time we might not have.”

“If it’s as you say, if she’s got a bee in her bonnet about this black picaroon, then I say she won’t waste time, not that one.”

_“‘She has gumption,’”_ he quoted softly.

“Aye, and a lot of coin. Did you notice how heavy that portmanteau of hers was?”

He glanced sideways at Cameron. “She wouldn’t let me carry it.”

“No wonder. It weighed a good amount. She must have five pounds in that bag, if not more.”

“I am beginning to think she’d planned this from the very start.” He rubbed his forehead; the sun was relentless and his head ached as much as his back, arms and hands. “Why else travel with that much money?” He wasn’t going to mention the part about Abigail ransacking Peter’s desk—she was a good girl driven to extremes.

“Why else, indeed?”

They nodded to each other, then took the oars and headed back the way they came, down the Ashley to go up the Cooper.

***

“Is it always like this?” Thomas asked as he dodged a man pushing a large cart of empty birdcages.

“You must’ve been to a dock before.”

“I have, in London. They were much more—” This time, he stepped to the side to avoid a boy pushing a wheelbarrow full of fish heads. “—orderly.” All around, tradesmen and merchants were rushing here and there. At one berth, a man was supervising the loading of a great many barrels onto a small ship. He was shouting as he did, swearing and threatening to ‘ _…send Flint himself after you if you don’t put a fire under it!’_ “It also seems strangely empty.”

“A dock is a dock,” Cameron growled and then conceded, nodding to the empty jetties, “but you’re not wrong. This pirate business has everyone in a tizzy. My guess is everyone put to sea as quick as quick and those that didn’t are scrambling to catch up. It don’t help that half the harbor is under the water.”

“Which means that Miss Abigail might have a hard time finding a ship.”

“If she’s as—” Cameron began, then stopped short. He nodded. “There she is.”

There she was, indeed. She was at the end of the dock, sitting on a massive coil of rope, half-hidden by a block of cotton and what was left of a brick building. She was holding the portmanteau on her lap and making an attempt at composure, but every so often, her gaze darted about in quiet alarm. She looked very young and very lost.

He sighed. “Poor thing.”

“Aye.”

They made their way over to her; she was so intent on watching the boy with the wheelbarrow that she didn’t see them coming.

“Miss Ashe?”

She jumped, almost falling before righting herself. “My lord. What are you doing here?”

He glanced about to see if anyone had heard her. “I think you know the answer to that.”

She gripped the handles of the portmanteau. “I won’t go back.”

“I understand. What is your plan?”

As if taken aback at his calm tone, she hesitated, then said bluntly, “I’m returning to Nassau by way of Harbor Island to ensure that Captain Flint is unharmed.”

“And then?”

“And then…” She firmed her jaw. “And then, I don’t know. I will ask Captain Flint for his advice.”

“God’s blood,” Cameron whispered.

Thomas held up his hand, asking Cameron for silence. His headache was worsening but he kept his voice kind, “May I suggest an alternative plan?”

“And that would be?”

“Come to the Governor’s house with me. Or better yet, come back to Wadmalaw. We will make inquiries. Then, when we’re all thinking clearly, we will develop a plan of action.”

She shook her head. “I can’t, don’t you see? I _can’t!”_

They were starting to attract attention. He gestured to the coil of rope. “May I sit?”

She nodded and slid to the side.

He sat and smiled down at her. “First, I must apologize for my actions of last night. I wasn’t myself.”

She nodded but the suspicion hadn’t left her gaze.

“Now, I’m afraid I _don’t_ understand why you want to return to Nassau. If Captain Flint were here—”

“If he were here, he’d be dead.”

He nodded. “That is most likely true.”

“It’s because of me she’s dead, it’s because of me that Charles Town is in ruins.”

He didn’t point out that the attack on Charles Town was hardly a direct result of her actions because he knew this guilt, knew how deadly and persistent it was. But that guilt was the very reason that Abigail could not go off on her own. Never mind the inherent dangers, her need for absolution and forgiveness could get her killed.

Carefully, he took her hand and murmured, “Miranda wouldn’t have wanted this, for you to be in harm’s way. You must realize that.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I do.”

“She would do everything to stop you.”

“I know.” She pulled her hand away. “And I know you will, too.”

“How do you mean?”

She stood up. “You’re going to drag me back to my father’s house, aren’t you? You’re going to lock me up until I acquiesce to your demands, just like they did. Well, I can promise you, you cannot hold me. I’ll find some way out. You cannot—”

He stood as well, reaching out to hold her shoulders to still the panic that was making her face flush and voice rise. It was odd how similar her declaration was to his from the other day. “I have no intention of locking you up, Miss Ashe.” He bent low. “I know too well how fruitless such a thing is; it never has the desired result other than to make the prisoner more determined to escape.”

She stared at him, her gaze keen and direct as if looking for any lie or falsehood. “What will you do?” she asked after a moment.

“I imagine you can’t be convinced to wait for the news, can you?””

“No.”

“And I cannot let you go on your own. You need a protector.” He glanced around at the dock, at the coarse men and women and found himself saying, “The only solution I can see at present is for me to go with you.”

Abigail’s eyes widened in surprise and Cameron exclaimed; Thomas held his hand up imperiously. “The journey is only a few days there and the same back. We’ll find a ship that is traveling to one of the British-held islands and—”

Abigail frowned and started to speak but he shook his head. “No. On this there will be no disagreement. We will _not_ be traveling to Nassau. We’ll try for someplace like Harbor Town.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“We will go, get the news and then return immediately, yes?”

She nodded again. “I need to inform the captain of the _Good Hope_ that I’ve made other arrangements.”

“Where is the _Good Hope_ headed?”

“Jamaica.”

At that, Cameron made a sound like a growl and barked, “What were you thinking, girl?”

Thomas didn’t have the heart to rebuke Abigail as he should—her shamed face said everything. “Jamaica is an exceedingly dangerous place, my dear,” he said gently. “Anything could happen to you there.”

“Anything _would_ ,” Cameron muttered.

Abigail glanced at Cameron, then back at Thomas. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her shoulders relax, just a bit. “Can I trust you to do as you say? You’ll tell him you no longer need a berth?”

She nodded. “There wasn’t room for me, in any case; I was to stay in the hold with them.” She nodded to a group of men standing by the jetty.

Cameron drew a deep breath, but Thomas stopped his outburst with a brief touch on his arm. The men were dressed as common laborers and seemed innocent enough, but when did looks ever tell the true story? “Well, now you won’t have to,” he said. “Mr. Cameron will find us another ship, one with a proper berth, and I’ll purchase warmer clothing and boots that fit. Do you have what you need?”

She nodded again.

“Then go, see if you can get your money back.”

She left them, hurrying down the quay towards the harbormaster’s rooms.

“You know she’s just going to jump ship as soon as you drop anchor, don’t you?” Cameron muttered.

“I know.”

“She’s gonna knock you out or leave in the night, just like before.”

He smiled. “She might try, but I will be ready.” Cameron opened his mouth, no doubt to argue Thomas’s decision, but he interrupted firmly, “We need funds for the journey. I have some, but probably not enough. As Lord Ashe’s factor, can you take care of that for me?”

Cameron glowered, but then nodded shortly and stomped off.

***

Within the hour, the arrangements had been made and Thomas found himself on another jetty with Abigail, waiting to board the somehow appropriately-named, _James._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

Thanks to favorable winds, the Man o’ War arrived at her destination hours earlier than James had predicted.

He gave the order to weigh anchor four miles south of the wreckage of the _Urca_ , just to be sure. He asked Scott to remain on the boat while he, Silver, Billy, and Joji set off in a longboat. Though he wanted to leave Silver behind, he couldn’t risk it.

They anchored the boat shallowly, and jumped out to splash their way ashore.

A spring storm had hit the area in the last day or so—palm leaves were scattered about and two giant cedars some twenty feet in length lay on their sides. Other than that, the beach was reassuringly empty.

James nodded to the north. “We’ll keep to the vegetation as much as possible. Chances are the _Urca’s_ crew has already set up the  outpost.”

Silver raised a hand. “What about the Indians?”

“What Indians?”

“The Indians you told me about last time we were on this beach. ‘Tequesta,’ you called them?”

“This area was once populated by the Tequesta but they migrated south. I haven’t seen a sign of them in years.”

Silver put his hands on his hips. “You lied?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

Silver opened his mouth but glanced at Billy and Joji, watching avidly. “Well,” he said, his anger visibly dying, “as long as we got that settled.”

“Good. Then, let’s be off.”

The journey was slow going. Like any coastal area, the land dipped and curved, dropped and rose. Covered by stunted flora on one side and black flat-topped volcanic rock on the other, the hilly dunes were slippery and treacherous.

Several times they had to stop and drop to a crouch when their path changed direction and they were suddenly exposed by the curve of the land ahead. It was at one of these junctions that he realized they were covering familiar territory. “We’re almost there.”

“Surely not,” Silver said, panting a bit. “We’ve at least another three miles.”

“I’m not talking about the _Urca._ I’m talking about the _Walrus_.”

By the men’s surprised expressions, they had forgotten the one singular aspect of this venture—the opportunity to see how the _Walrus_ had held up. Even with a couple storms, she should still be in relatively good shape. If he could get her patched within a month or so, the water damage would be minimal.

Eager to see her, he quickened his pace and climbed the small hill above the cove where shewas beached.

His smile fell away when he got to the top. He looked around. “What the hell?” The cove was empty of everything but seabirds.

Billy joined him. After a moment, he said, “Are you sure this is the right spot?”

“Of course, I’m sure. That rocky promontory there?” He nodded to a large mound of black rock. “That was my marker.” He dug his map out of his pocket. He’d drawn it the day after they’d taken the Man o’ War so he wouldn’t forget a detail. He held the map up and pointed.

Billy looked over his shoulder.

“See?” he said, pointing to the map and then the mound. He scanned the area again to make sure he was seeing right, and yes, there were the rocks that towered in the shape of a short man, there was the sharp rise that separated this cove from the bay where the _Urca_ lay. “Someone stole my ship,” he breathed in disbelief. “Someone stole my _fucking_ ship.”

“Maybe the Spanish sunk her?”

“A ship that size doesn’t disappear without a trace, not in this short a time. There’d be debris everywhere.”

“Could she have unmoored in the storm?”

“The tide would have never gotten that high and with the damage to her hull, there’d be something left of her, some sign.”

Joji had been helping Silver up the slope and they made it just as James folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. “C’mon,” he growled, “we’re going to find my ship.”

“What?” Silver cried in disbelief. “I thought we were looking for the gold!”

***

The next leg of the journey was undertaken in stiff silence as James furiously reassessed the situation, dismissing one theory after another. There really was only one theory that made sense: the crew from the _Urca_ had found the _Walrus_ repaired her, then set off with her.

He was soundlessly fuming, cursing all Spaniards, when they reached the hill that he’d marked as _No-man’s Land_ on his map. He motioned the men to approach the crest with caution and then crouched low. He got out his glass. “What the hell?”

Silver scurried to James’s side. “What is it?”

“There’s no outpost.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. See for yourself.” He gave the glass to Silver.

“Hmm.” Silver scanned the area. “Perhaps they’re already gone?”

He stroked his beard. “Perhaps.” He looked up. Above the bay, a trio of black birds circled in the bright blue sky.

“Should we turn back?”

“No,” he said absently. “Look up.”

The men all looked up.

“Vultures,” Billy said thoughtfully.

James nodded. “They obviously know something we don’t.” He took the glass from Silver and got to his feet.

“Aren’t you worried about being seen,” Silver hissed.

He closed his glass with a snap and tucked it in his belt. “Not anymore.”

***

In the end, there was no need of caution of any kind. When they got to the next hill, stooping low to avoid detection, they found their efforts were indeed for nothing.

“Well?” Billy whispered at James’s side.

“They’re all dead,” he said, peering through the glass. The only living things on the beach below were the gulls, petrels and crows, feeding on what was left of the _Urca’s_ crew. It was an eerie sight, made more so by the lack of any human sound.

“No gold,” Silver sighed.

“They might have buried it,” Billy said hopefully.

“If they had time,” James said. He was feeling oddly calm, as if he’d known this was going to happen. “We’ll investigate. Be on the lookout for any survivors. I want us gone within the hour.”

***

“They fought hard,” Billy said.

“They did, indeed,” James answered, making his way around the bloated corpses of two men, cut about on the face and chest. Whatever weapons they had once had were gone.

“Is there any sign of who did this?”

“None that I can see but it’s a good guess it was the crew that Vincent sold the information to.”

Billy stopped and put his hands on his hips. “But how? They wouldn’t have had the time.”

Silver was down near the tide where the sand was firmer, scanning the surface for God knew what. Joji was by his side, hand out to catch him if he fell. “I don’t know how, precisely,” James murmured, “but I’m thinking the information given me was missing one crucial detail.”

Billy followed his glance. “And that would be?”

“That Silver knows who the purchaser was; that they sailed for this beach a week ago, not days, only he told us nothing to give them time to retrieve it.” Billy glared but before he could say anything, James added, “Did you notice anything about the bodies over there?” He nodded to a small mound of corpses near a stack of broken crates.

Billy turned and looked. “What about them?”

“They’re not wounded, not that I can see.”

“And that means?”

“That they died of natural causes.”

Billy frowned. “And that means?”

“That they were ill. There are at least six men in that pile; that’s too many for a simple fever or a gripe. They probably were all sick.”

“So that was another lie?”

He glanced at Silver. “Most likely. He knew they were ill, that they were vulnerable and acted accordingly.”

Billy’s expression changed from confusion to anger. He started off towards Silver but James grabbed his arm. “You can’t,” he hissed. “We need to assess the situation first.”

“Then we do nothing? He gets away with it?”

“No, he won’t get away with it. We look for confirmation, gather up anything of use, then return to the ship.” He released Billy and stepped back. “When we saw them last, they were digging over by that bluff.”

Billy hesitated, fists still clenched and then he sighed and muttered, “Let’s go see what they were up to,” and strode off towards the northernmost bluff.

“Let’s,” James said, looking over his shoulder. Silver had stopped doing whatever he was doing and was watching him. Even at the distance, even though he couldn’t truly see Silver’s expression, he knew Silver was watching him with curiosity and mistrust.

***

The north side of the beach was relatively free of bodies. A grizzled sailor lay near a gap in the foliage, eyes wide open to the sky. Billy rolled him to the side, then crouched and peered into the gap.

“What is it?” James asked, coming up behind him.

“I don’t know. A cache?”

“Let me see.” Billy made way and he lifted the veil of leaves and branches. “They were digging here, all right.” He pulled his sword and poked at the mound. His sword tip hit something hard, something that rang dully.

Billy knelt next to him. “What is that? A chest?”

He sheathed the sword. “Not the kind they were offloading from the ship; those were wooden. Here, help me…” He and Billy began to dig with their hands, scooping out sand and leaves. After a heart-stopping moment, they hit metal. He looked at Billy and Billy looked at him.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he warned as they dug faster, releasing the chest from its sandy grave.

For whatever reason, the Spaniards hadn’t buried the chest deep. It was a foot and a half wide another foot deep. It was made of thick hide and wood, bound by iron bands and clasps. The decoration was ornate, princely, and he repeated, mostly to himself, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

He tried to pry the clasps up but they were stiff with rust. Billy got his dagger and pried the one open and then the other. If this was a fable or legend, James thought, the chest would be filled to the brim with bright shiny gold coins, but it wasn’t. On the top was a book and underneath were papers. James lifted the book out and carefully sat it on the sand.

“Ahoy, there,” Silver called out behind them. “Did you find something?”

“A chest,” Billy said without turning around.

“Is that all?” Silver said. “Why would they bury that?” He reached over James’s shoulder to touch one of the parchments but James slapped his hand away. “Ow!”

“Don’t,” he said. “We have no idea what these are or why they’re important enough to bury.”

“Captain?” Billy leaned over the chest and pointed. “Look.”

Still taking care, James lifted the documents out of the chest to reveal another layer of goods, and Christ, here was the thing he’d been looking for, albeit in a much smaller amount.

“By all that’s—” Silver breathed, bending to lean on James’s shoulder. “Is that what I think it is?”

James nodded and gently picked up a coin even though there was no real need for gentleness.

The gold doubloon was cool and heavy in his hand, shining dully in the sun. The thick edges were smooth, though slightly misshapen. On one side was a Jerusalem Cross with the words _‘Rex. Philipus v. Dg. Hispania, Ano 1713’_ etched near the edge. He turned it over to find a twin date stamp of 1713 on the edge and an etching of two palm trees in the center.

Billy touched the face of the coin. “1713. Is this from the _Urca’s_ shipment? Why is it in this chest and not with the others?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. I’ve only seen the like twice before; each time the coins were minted with Charles the Second’s likeness, but only dated on one side.”

“So, it’s more valuable?” Silver asked.

He ran his fingers over the rest of the gold, estimating the quality and weight. “I have no idea. There are what, another two hundred pieces here?” He shook his head again and then turned and handed it to Joji. “What do you think?”

Joji rarely spoke or showed any expression, but he weighed the coin and then cracked a smile. “Good. It is good.” He gave the coin back to James.

James smiled and tossed the coin back in the chest, then put the papers and book on top and re-fastened the clasps. “It’s not five million but for now, it’s enough.”

“We’re going back?” Silver asked, looking around the bay.

“No.” James got to his feet. “Let’s make sure this chest has no brothers.”

***

It took them another hour to come to the conclusion that the chest was an anomaly. Among the items covered by the wind, they found a small barrel of meat buried deep in the cool sand, a cache of Spanish swords, and a burial pit.

“That’s it?” Billy asked dejectedly.

“I’m afraid so.” At least it confirmed his supposition that the Spaniards had taken some illness—none of the men in the burial pit had died from bullets or the blade of a sword.

Silver had picked one of the rapiers and was testing its edge. “What now?”

“Now, we return to the ship with the chest and whatever weapons we can carry.”

“Shouldn’t we stay the night? We can look again in the morning.”

He shook his head. “It will be dark soon and we don’t want to be on this beach as weakly armed as we are.” There was a bank of clouds forming on eastern horizon. The storm would be on them by nightfall.

“We have those cannons,” Silver nodded to the pair flanking the beach.

James turned and smiled, not nicely. “Remember those Indians I told you about, Mr. Silver?”

“You said you’d lied.”

“I did. About the Tequesta; the Timucua is another story.”

Silver frowned and pressed his lips together but made no complaint.

James nodded as if he had, then said to Billy, “You and I will carry the chest. Joji, you help Silver.”

***

The sun was low in the sky by the time they got back to the ship. The storm he had predicted swept north; other than sending a few flurries their way, it bypassed them nicely.

James wasn’t surprised to find the entire crew waiting for him when he landed on deck, wasn’t surprised when they started grumbling the minute they heard the news that there was no gold.

“Yes, there is no five million Spanish dollars,” he shouted, looking around at the men. “But our journey hasn’t been without some reward and it will tide you over until we get our treasure!” He looked over his shoulder where Billy was waiting. “Billy?”

Billy hauled the chest off the gunwale and sat it down on the planks. The crew, hearing the heavy sound the chest made as it landed, murmured and gathered closer.

James pointed to the chest. “It’s pure gold, coin of the realm in any tavern or whorehouse!”

The men cheered as he knew they would and he gave them a minute before gesturing for quiet.

“Now that we have definitive proof our gold is gone, we are going home and we are going to find it!” He glanced around. “Are you with me?”

This time the shouts were deafening.

***

After his little show, he had the chest brought into his cabin and sat down to chart their course. His first choice would take them along the Florida coast and then east to Nassau. It was well traveled, particularly by the Royal Navy, but they’d save as much as a day. His second choice would take them east and then south; it was longer but had the advantage of safer waters—many of the towns in the Bahamas were owned by the Crown but ruled by pirates.

He’d decided safety trumped speed with this light a crew and was making his calculations when he heard a shout of, _“Sail! Sail on the horizon.”_

He tossed the compass, picked up the spyglass and hurried up to the quarterdeck.

“Captain,” Billy said as he met James at the railing.

“Who is it?” DeGroot called out from his place at the wheel. “Is it the Navy?”

“Patience,” James muttered under his breath, affixing the glass on the horizon. It was near sunset and the falling sun was in his eyes. “She’s a brig, a two-master, so not the Navy.”

Silver had reached the deck. “Merchant vessel?”

“Probably. She’s hugging the coast which means she’s trying to avoid the weather.”

“Should we take her? She might be out of New Haven or Elizabethtown. She could be carrying meat or flour, even horses!”

“We have no one to sell any goods to, remember?”

“Yes, but we _will,_ I know it.”

He turned. “Mr. Silver, every time we chat, I get the feeling that you know so much more about what’s going on than you’re telling me.”

Silver shook his head vigorously. “On the contrary, I’m just proposing an alternative plan. That ship will be the work of a few hours; we’ll still be home by tomorrow. Besides,” Silver added, “the men will like it. It would be good for morale.”

He hesitated, trying to see beneath Silver’s bland observations. He had a point—merchant ships were easy prey and the men _had_ been disappointed. “Very well,” he finally said. “She might be worth it. We’ll come about and get behind her. Inform the men.” He put the glass back to his eye and squinted.

“Do you recognize her?” Billy asked. “We’ve come across her before, haven’t we?”

They had indeed, though it had been a while. Captain Hill used to run Indian slaves from Carolina down to Nassau before he had turned respectable. “It’s Captain Hill _,”_ he said, “and the _James.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

“This is all my fault,” Abigail murmured.

Thomas sharpened his gaze through his borrowed lens. He couldn’t quite get the hang of it, this spyglass device. Every time he affixed the lens on the horizon or a cloud, the ship tossed them about like so much dross and he lost his place. Of course, it could also be that he’d had a headache for days now and it was getting worse, affecting his eyesight as well as his sense of balance. He squinted again, trying to focus on a gull flying by. “How do you mean?”

“I should have stayed in London.”

“I can’t say I disagree with you in general terms; you would have been safer in London. But, as to the rest, we really must work on your need to shoulder the responsibility of every little thing whether it’s your doing or not.” It was no use; he gave up and closed the spyglass.

Abigail drew a sharp breath. “Was Lady Hamilton’s death a _little thing?’_ she asked heatedly. “Was—” she hesitated and looked about, then lowered her voice to a whisper, “Was Charles Town?”

He took her hand and led her to the bench where they’d been sitting when they’d decided a walk around the deck would do them good. It felt nice to sit down; when he wasn’t standing, the dizziness in his mind and the pressure on his chest abated.

“I understand the desire, my dear, but some things are out of our control. Miranda’s death was not your fault. Flint’s decision to barrage Charles Town from that ship was not your fault.”

“Yes, but—”

He set the spyglass on a barrel. “Have you ever thought that it’s hubris to expect the world to act and react to your every move?”

Her eyes widened and she flushed in affront.

He squeezed her hand in apology and tried again. “No, I do not mean that we ought not take personal responsibility for our actions, but we cannot be answerable to the things beyond our control such as other people’s reactions and the laws of nature. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Then let us take one item and break it down. You say you are responsible for Miranda’s death. You believe this to be true?” Across the ship, up on the topmost deck, the captain and a few of his crew were watching something to the east.

“Yes.”

“So what she wanted, the actions _she_ took after she met you, are your responsibility as well?”

“Yes.”

“Then it follows that everything she had done in her life that had led her to this point, all the decisions she made that had built her character, that would in turn inform her responses to varying incidences are your responsibility, too.”

She hesitated, then said doubtfully, “Yes?”

He took her other hand and squeezed both. “No. Do you see? If you’re going to be responsible for another person’s actions, you must be responsible for _all_ of that person’s actions.”

“But—” she started frowning.

“I am not saying that we are not our brother’s keepers. I am saying that at a certain point, you need to let people make their own choices, have their own reason for living.”

She was still frowning; she didn’t quite understand and maybe that was because the ship was tossing them about so violently and it was muddling up his brain and therefore his facility for explaining difficult concepts. He touched his temple. If he were at home, he would go to his room, open all the windows and lie down but he wasn’t at home and had no bed; a bit of canvas strung between two hooks could hardly be called a ‘bed.’

“My lord?”

“I told you, Abigail, no ‘sirs’ or ‘lords’; on this ship we are just ‘Thomas’ and ‘Abigail.’” He made himself smile. “What are they looking at over there, do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you go ask them; the crew seems friendly. They won’t harm you.”

“I know.”

“Then go; I’m going to stay here for a while.” He rested his head against the balustrade, squinting at the bright light.

“Thomas? Are you ill?”

He smiled up at her. “Of course, not. I’m just tired; sleeping in that hammock hasn’t done me any good.”

“If you say so.”

“I do indeed.” He nodded to the spyglass. “Can you return that to Captain Hill? I’m sure he’ll be wanting it back.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

He heard the receding sound of her boot heels on the deck and it was so very strange, but the sound matched the tempo of his heartbeat exactly. What were the odds that two disparate activities such as a beating heart and a young girl walking on a wooden deck could sound so similar?

He rubbed his forehead again, attempting to rub away the pain that was now throbbing, also in time with the beat of his heart, Abigail’s walk and now the cry of a far off seabird.

He opened his eyes, only then aware that he’d closed them. The sails high above were snapping in the sharp wind, their white a stark contrast to the darkening sky and the ugly yellow clouds. He groaned, or thought he did as a wave of nausea overtook him.

“Thomas?”

It was Abigail, bent low over him. “What is it?” he asked. “Have they spied land?”

She frowned. “Pardon?” and then, before he could speak, added urgently, “Never mind that; we need to get below. A storm is coming. Captain Hill says it will be upon us in a few minutes time. Can you get up?”

“Of course, I can,” he assured her with a snap of his own. “I—” He tried to rise but fell back.

She bent over him again, this time touching his forehead. “You’re chilled. What is wrong?”

He wasn’t cold. In fact, he was overly warm. “Nothing is wrong.”

He began to untie his stock but Abigail stopped him, laying her hand over his. “You’re ill.”

“It’s ridiculous to argue, Abigail, not when I know I’m right.” But she wasn’t listening, she had, in fact, hurried over to the Captain. Whatever she said got results and in a few seconds two of the crew had him by the arms and were pulling him unceremoniously upright.

He thought to protest but as soon as he opened his mouth, the world tipped sideways and then back again and he wasn’t sure if it was the ship or himself. He’d been in this place before, knowing neither up nor down, and even as he opened his mouth to explain, he began to fall.

***

His world narrowed to the familiar land of foggy sight and muffled sound.

Vaguely and without good reason, he knew _who_ he was but the rest was confusion. At one moment, he recognized Abigail, at other times, she was just _the girl._ At one moment, he realized he was ill, at others, he was back in Bedlam, fighting for his life, his sanity.

Twilight days came and went and as he slipped through them, drifting along the tide of grey light, he somehow slipped deeper into himself, soon knowing no one and no thing…

***

He heard a voice through the shadows that had become his world.

“Thomas?” And then, “ _Thomas!”_

He tried to open his eyes and was confronted by a weakness so acute, it took several tries before he was able to raise his very heavy eyelids.

It was dark and he was in a bed that wasn’t his, in a room that wasn’t his. He tried to lift his hand and couldn’t. Someone put a cool palm on his forehead.

“Miranda?” he muttered. His lips were sore and his lungs felt as if they were filled with lead.

“No, it’s Abigail. Abigail Ashe.”

He frowned, embarrassed at the mistake. Of course it wasn’t Miranda; she was far away in the country, safe and sound with her beautiful children and her beautiful life.

He tried to make his eyes focus, finally honing in on the girl at his side. He knew her, he was sure of it, but her face was distorted, as if seen through a warped windowpane. “What is it? Is he here?”

“I don’t know who you are talking about; try to go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.” _I’m cold_. He looked down to find he was under a heavy blanket but wearing nothing but breeches. “Where are my clothes?”

“You’ve been sick; your clothes are soiled.” There was a slight pause and then girl said, “Do you understand? You’ve been sick. If you can, please sleep.”

“Is the doctor coming?”

“What? No, there is no doctor.” The girl took a deep breath. “Thomas, please _listen_. We’re in grave danger. They’ve locked us in and I need you to keep quiet until we know who was firing upon us.”

“He mustn’t find you here.” The grey fog was thickening again. “He’ll be angry.”

“You’re not making sense.”

So true—sense had long since deserted this place along with compassion and hope. “What is that noise? Is it the gate?”

“I don’t know what you mean. What gate?”

“We need to leave.” He pushed up on one arm. “He’ll be here soon and—” He froze, listening hard.

The girl took him by the shoulders. “Thomas, you must be still, you can’t—”

_“Hush!”_ He shoved her away, trying to concentrate on one particular sound heard under all other sounds. “He’s coming.”

“Who?”

There it was, a rhythmic pounding, _thud, thud, thud,_ too familiar, and he could hear the moans that were somehow worse than the screams. “He’s here. You must hide.”

“Thomas, please be still.”

He shook off her hands again as the sound changed and became a kind of tune, up and down, up and down, like a flute or the wind whistling through the chinks in his cell. “What _is_ that?”

“Thomas? This is important—don’t tell them your name or mine, I beg of you. I can’t—”

Whatever the girl would have said was cut off as the door exploded off its hinges. The girl was thrown across the bed, her head hitting the window’s casement.

The shock of the blast swept away the cobwebs and the world righted itself. He remembered where he was, not in the hospital waiting on Jenkins, but on the ship with Abigail Ashe, now trapped by two dark figures that came through the smoke like wraiths.

Ears ringing, vision blurred, he squinted as one of the wraiths held up a light that bobbed and swayed.

They were men, he realized, not wraiths, just two men. The first was tall with a frame like Goliath. He was half naked, his face and body covered with paint; he carried a sword in one hand, a lantern in the other. The second man was shorter, dressed from head to foot in a black. Black coat, black trousers, black boots. Even his face was hidden behind a black headscarf, like a highwayman or thief. He wielded a long cutlass and a flintlock.

“Who are you?” Thomas demanded, doing his best to seem threatening and not as helpless as a babe. He gathered Abigail to him. “If you’re here for money or jewels, we have none.”

Neither man spoke but the one in black stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Thomas.

“What have you done with Captain Hill? I swear by God, if you’ve harmed him, you will answer to me!”

Still, both men were silent but now the painted one had turned his attention to the other man. He bent and whispered something in the man’s ear.

“If you leave now, we will not pursue you,” Thomas declared, furtively searching for a weapon.

The painted man touched the other one’s arm and leaned forward again this time gesturing abruptly. Without taking his eyes off Thomas, the man in the black coat nodded. The painted man set the lantern on the floor, sheathed his sword and came closer until he was towering over Thomas.

With no ceremony, the man reached down. Thomas shouted, _“No!”_ but the man easily held Thomas off with one hand and lifted Abigail with the other.

“No!” Thomas said, this time pleading. He shoved the heavy covers to the floor. “Please, stop!” But it was too late, the painted man was gone, leaving Thomas alone with the man in the black coat. “You will bring her back this instant!” he demanded, swinging his legs over the edge of the berth. “She has done nothing to you!”

He got to his feet just as the ship dipped and he flung his arms up for balance. He took a step. “Bring her—”

It had been a mistake, standing up, because the ship pitched once more and he stepped forward, stubbing his toe on something hard. Time slowed to a crawl and he felt every second of the next moment: poised like a bird in flight, vision narrowing but fixed on the man before him, he took a breath and fell.

He landed on his hands and knees, then fell to his side, the wrenching pain clearing his mind for a brief moment. The man had dropped at the same time and turned him over, staring down at him with bright, glassy eyes.

It was coming, the next wave; he could feel it press against his chest and mind but he had to see, it was important to _see._ He reached up to pull the man’s scarf away but was too late—the wave crested and he could only go with it, breath gone, thinking that the man had such lovely blue eyes for someone in such distress…

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

“How is she?” James asked Scott as he climbed to the fo’c’s’le.

“Still struggling. Her main topgallant is torn.”

“From what? Have they taken fire?”

“Doubtful. I think it was just the storm.”

He nodded. After they’d begun their chase, their quarry had turned to into the tail end of a thunderstorm. James had managed to skirt the edge of it but his namesake hadn’t been so lucky. The _James_ had disappeared into the black and come out in tatters when the storm moved off.

He put the glass to his eye. “They’re readying their cannons.”

“Does Captain Hill really think he can take us?”

“I think he thinks he has to try.”

“They can’t make it easy, can they?” came a voice from behind.

James and Scott turned to find Silver standing behind them, balancing on his crutch.

“Would you?” Scott asked.

Silver grinned. “I like to think I’d never be in that situation.”

“Are the men ready?” James said.

“They are.”

“Captain!”

It was Billy, climbing down the rigging. He hurried across the deck and then was up ladder, out of breath. “Can I speak to you?” he added, glancing at Scott and Silver. “Alone?”

James hesitated, giving Scott a quick glance, then nodded.

“He’s going to be pestering you from now until tomorrow,” James said as soon as Scott and Silver had left them.

Billy shrugged and came closer to whisper, “Just now, did you notice anyone unusual on the weatherdeck?”

He shook his head.

“I could swear I saw the girl.” Billy looked around and then bent low. “You know—Miss Ashe?”

“You couldn’t have. She’s either on her way back to London or is still in Charles Town.”

“Are you sure? There’s a woman on that ship and she looks just like Abigail.”

James frowned and turned to examine the _James_ , ignoring Billy’s slip of the tongue. “What the hell would she be doing on a merchant ship heading for Harbor Island?” He felt a small measure of guilt—with all that had happened since they’d raised anchor in the Cooper River, he hadn’t thought much on Abigail Ashe.

“What should we do? We can’t fire on the _James._ Miss Ashe might be injured.”

“If it _is_ her.”

“It _is_ her _,_ I know it! _”_

He sighed. “I can’t go down there and tell the men to be gentle, Billy. They want this prize; their blood is up.”

Billy gripped the rails. “Then we tell them there is an important person on board and that person must be protected.”

“When did _I_ become _we_ , Billy?” James said. “But,” he added before Billy could say anything, “I’ve a better idea. You’re going to tell them that you think you saw the men store two barrels of powder in the captain’s cabin. That should keep them from doing too much damage.”

“And Miss Ashe?”

“If it comes to a fight, _if_ she is indeed on that ship, you and I will do our best to find her and protect her. Will that do?”

Billy nodded.

“Then go tell Mr. Silver and act convincing—if I know our quartermaster, he’s watching us right now, wondering what we’re up to.”

Billy’s frown deepened but he’d become used to intrigue and didn’t look around.

“For what it’s worth,” James said, glass back up to his eye, watching the panic on the faces of the _James’s_ crew, “I hope you’re wrong. I hope Miss Ashe isn’t anywhere near that ship.”

“Me, too.”

“Let’s also hope it doesn’t come to a fight.”

***

It came to a fight.

The minute after James gave the order to raise the black, the _James_ fired. Hill was good—he had to be to manage with those sails— but his men were sloppy and the first volleys fell short by a good twelve yards. As they reloaded, James brought the Man o’ War around to flank and they engaged, each firing two more rounds.

The second volley on the part of James’s crew was perfectly placed, hitting the main mast three-quarters of the way up. The mast creaked, then groaned and fell, taking the sails with it as well as two hands unfortunate enough to be caught in the shrouds. Within seconds, the _James’s_ colors were lowered.

After that it was the usual confusion. As soon as they were close enough, the men cast the grappling hooks and hauled the _James_ close. They got the boarding planks and let them drop.

As dangerous as it was, this was the part he loved best; he wrapped his face in his scarf and walked across the plank. Landing on the deck with a thud, he surveyed the terrified crew in the waist. He knew what they were seeing: an armed devil in a mask who would gut them as soon as look at them. He glared, using their own fear against them while searching for the ones that might cause trouble. There on the end, a big, mean looking fellow glared back for a long moment, then looked away. James caught Joji’s eye and jerked his head. Joji nodded and moved behind the man, sword ready.

The crew taken care of, he climbed up to the quarterdeck where Billy and Scott waited with the captain. Hill was younger than he’d thought; he must have started out as a boy. When James got close enough to see the color of his eyes, Hill swallowed visibly. Good.

He unwrapped his headscarf and asked, “Captain Hill?”

“You know of me?”

“I do. I’m assuming you know of me.”

Hill swallowed again. “I do.”

“Are your men accounted for?”

“Yes.”

“No one hiding below decks?”

“If they are, I’ll beat them within an inch of their lives.”

It made him smile, the comment. “What is your cargo?”

“Flour, beef and timber for the Royal Navy.”

“Any passengers?”

Hill looked to the left, then answered evenly, “This is a merchant vessel, not a packet boat.”

James nodded, sharing a quick glance with Billy. Behind them was the Hill’s cabin; the door had been barred and locked.

“My men are going to offload your cargo; my quartermaster is going to offer employment to any seeking a change of scenery. If you want to live to see the night through, you will not interrupt them.”

Hill wanted to argue, James could practically see the words on his lips, but all he said was a stiff, “Very well.”

He gestured. “Why don’t you join your crew.”

Scott began to guide Hill to the ladder when someone yelled and a shot rang out. James ran to the rail in time to see a man rush from behind a bale of cotton, carrying two pistols. Before anyone could stop him, the man shot Barnsley in the throat. Barnsley dropped to the deck, blood spurting.

“DeGroot!” James shouted, but there was no need. DeGroot was already on Hill’s man, his sword buried in the man’s gut. Back they went, stumbling up against the bulwark. The man made a desperate grab, reaching for the braces but he miscalculated and fell back, thighs against the rails. It was like a tableau, DeGroot and the man frozen in time where anything could happen. But then, DeGroot grunted and pushed and the man went overboard without a sound.

James rounded on Hill and grabbed his lapel. “Everyone accounted for, are they?” His men had gathered round the body; the deck was red with blood.

Hill raised his hands as if to ward off a blow, stuttering, “I told them no reprisals! I told them!”

“Dr. Howell?” James shouted, never moving his eyes from Hill’s. “Is he dead?”

“Yes!” Howell called back.

James tightened his fist, his jaw. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now?”

“Please.” Hill was white now. “It’s not my fault!”

He could see it, Hill’s death, no more than another black mark in a book already full of black marks. He raised his sword.

“Captain?”

It was Billy. He was standing behind Hill, watching James with a pleading look, reminding James of their plan.

He made his hand release Hill, actually having to order his fingers to uncurl, one by one. “Mr. Silver?” he called out over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Begin the cargo transfer. Take it all.”

“Do you need any help up there?”

Billy pressed his lips together and shifted from foot to foot. James called out, “No.” He shoved Hill towards Scott and said to Billy, “Let’s see what’s in there.”

“Captain?” Hill said.

“What?”

“That door is locked.”

“Then give me the key.”

“The key is on my quartermaster,” Hill replied with a gleam of muted revenge in his eye. “And he’s at the bottom of the ocean by now.”

James sighed. “Billy? Get an ax.”

***

The door gave them an unexpected amount of trouble. The wood was inches thick and the ax barely made a dent. They tried an iron crow with the same success, hammering at the lock with growing frustration. Finally, with night fully on, he gave the order to just blast the hell out of the door. Juba packed a small barrel full of black powder then balanced it on an empty barrel and lit the fuse.

The explosion was satisfyingly loud and did an equally satisfying amount of damage.

“Captain?” Billy whispered.

“Jesus, Billy,” James growled. “Go already.”

Billy grabbed a lantern and disappeared into the black cloud. James covered his mouth with his scarf to avoid the smoke and followed, unsheathing his sword and pistol.

When he walked into the cabin, he was looking for debris on the floor that could trip him up and thinking about the conversation he was going to have with Billy about inappropriate infatuations. Distracted, it took him a moment to see what he was seeing.

The cabin was small, illuminated only by a lantern in the far starboard corner. The explosion had sent the cabin’s contents flying. Hill was a lettered man—there were books scattered everywhere.

“Captain?” Billy said, holding the lantern up, nodding. _“Look.”_

James looked.

In the far larboard corner, a man lay in what should be the captain’s berth. He was covered in thick blankets and a girl lay across him, either sleeping or dead.

“Who are you?” the man demanded as he gathered the girl to him. “If you’re here for money or jewels, we have none.”

James took a step forward. Impossible _._

“What have you done with Captain Hill?” The man glanced at Billy, then back to James. “I swear by God, if you’ve harmed him, you will answer to me!”

Billy stepped close to James’s side. “Captain?”

The explosion had been loud, yes, but that wouldn’t account for the ringing in his ears nor the pounding in his chest because it was _impossible._

“If you leave now, we will not pursue you,” the man said, still in that same demanding tone. He gathered the girl closer.

“It’s Miss Ashe,” Billy whispered. “She’s hurt.”

Every pirate heard tales of the dead rising, of what it was to come across the ghostly form of one long lost to death. He’d always listened with half an ear, giving the stories no credence, thinking with great cynicism that the storytellers were either pathetic liars begging for attention or simply mad from too many years at sea.

So maybe that’s what he’d become, a man gone mad, confronting his own insanity in the form of his own fair-haired demon.

“Captain!” Billy touched his arm. “She’s hurt! We need to get her to Mr. Howell,” he urged, his voice coming as if from a great distance.

James nodded slowly, unable to speak, afraid of what might come out.

Billy hurried across the room and set the lantern on the floor. The man in the bed tried to fight him, shouting “No!” but Billy fended him off easily. He picked Abigail up and hurried off.

“No,” the man said again, this time almost pleading. He pushed aside the blankets and murmured something too low for James to hear, then said, “You will bring her back this instant! She has done nothing to you!”

The man struggled to stand. He was naked except for breeches and even in the faint light, James could see he was glossy with sweat.

The man took a step, arms up for balance. “Bring her—” He took another step, hitting a book. Balanced for a moment, he looked up at James with helpless eyes.

James dropped his weapons and leapt, trying to be there in time, but the man fell, down to his hands and knees and then to his side. James knelt and rolled him over gently.

The man looked up at him with confused sea-blue eyes. He reached up as if to touch James’s face but that effort seemed too much—with a ragged sigh, he closed his eyes, his head tipped to the side.

James touched the man’s cheek, his chin, only then realizing he was weeping, the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Thomas,” he whispered. _“Thomas.”_


	3. The Turn of the Tide

Book III  
The Turn of the Tide

_........................................_

_At Sea_

 

Though his eyes were shut, the second he roused he knew his situation had changed.

He was still on a ship, in a cabin easily three times the size of Hill’s. On either side, two cannons rested, their noses pointed up. An elaborately carved desk stood in the middle of the room on a brightly colored carpet. An equally elaborately carved chair sat at an angle to the desk, as if the owner had just gotten up. The walls and panels were carved and gilded, all with a distinctive Spanish flavor. And though everything was painted black, the cabin seemed filled with light.

He was alone. He was dressed only in his smallclothes; his shirt and breeches lay folded at the foot of the bed. Next to him was a chair and a stand upon which rested a pewter basin and a cloth. Above him, oddly enough, was a birdcage with no bird.

Cautiously, he sat up. Whatever ailment had been troubling him seemed to be gone; the room didn’t spin and he no longer felt qualmish.

Tall windows ran the width of the cabin and he leaned over, pushing open the nearest one. A fresh, cool breeze flowed over him and he closed his eyes briefly. There was no clock in sight but he felt as if it must be late afternoon—the light hitting the window casements had that deep gold tone that signaled the sun was setting.

He pushed up to look out the window and saw nothing but water. He realized the ship was relatively still and he could hear the small cry of some sort of sea bird. He wasn’t a sailor but even he knew those two things meant they were anchored near land or close to it.

Another sound drew his attention, this one much closer. Two people were arguing just outside the cabin; one voice deep, the other light.

“Hello?” he called out.

There was a pause and then the door opened. Abigail came in.

He reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “My dear,” he said contritely, having forgotten for a moment how they had come to be here. “How are you?”

She came to sit next to him. “I am well.”

“How is your head? It looks painful.” A small knot sat at the top of her forehead. The surrounding tissue was colored yellow and blue.

She touched her forehead gently with a soft smile. “It looks worse than it is.”

He took her hand and squeezed in sympathy, then let go. “No headaches or fainting spells?”

“No.”

“I’m glad.”

She smiled. “I am glad for you, as well. I’ve been worried about you.”

“I am feeling better,” he said. “Whatever sickness I had seems to have passed.”

Abigail’s smile died. “I hope so.”

He hesitated, then said, “That sounds less than promising but let’s leave that for now—where are we? Have we made it to Harbor Island?”

“About that—” Abigail trailed off and glanced out the window as if looking for answers.

He leaned back against the hull. “That also sounds less than promising. What is it?” He glanced at the cabin door with its gold leaf and crosses; if he went to that door would he find it bolted or guarded? “This is a Spanish ship.”

“It is.”

“How did we come to be here?”

“What do you remember of that night?”

He thought about it, trying to find and hold the elusive memories. “Not much, I’m afraid. I remember a storm and that you were angry with me for some reason.”

Abigail took his hand. “I wasn’t angry,” she assured him. “Not angry at all. You see, we were attacked by pirates and you were very ill. I was afraid you would give away information as to your identity.”

“I understand; you thought they’d hold me for ransom.” _Even though there was no one to ransom me_ to. “I take it Captain Hill defeated the pirates or—” He looked around the cabin. “Perhaps another ship rescued us?”

“No.” She shook her head. “There was no rescue.”

“Which leaves only one conclusion: we’re _on_ the pirate ship.”

She nodded.

He placed his hand over hers. “Are we being held hostage? Have they hurt you in any way.”

She actually smiled. “No, they’ve been very kind. They’re not that sort of men.”

“Ah,” he said. Her words prompted memory and he thought of their conversation back on the island, remembering the purpose of their journey, her stubborn refusal to see reason. “You’ve gotten your wish; we’re on Captain Flint’s ship.”

She nodded slowly.

“My dear,” he sighed, suddenly tired. He pulled the light sheet up. “I thought we’ve been through this. We agreed.”

“No, you said what you wanted to do. I said what I wanted to do. There was no agreement of any kind.”

“True.” He had to smile. “You would make a very good barrister.”

“If the Crown had any interest in women’s occupations, I think I might like that.”

“So now,” he said with a sigh. “We are in the lion’s den. What comes next? Are we to be eaten?”

“No, we’re being taken to a safe place.”

“And where is that?”

Abigail glanced at the door. “I can’t tell you.”

“Ah.”

She reached out again, this time pleading. “We’re not in any danger, truly. Captain Flint wants more than anything to ensure our safety. I can’t tell you where we are going, because I don’t know.”

He rubbed his forehead; the headache he thought gone was returning. “And after we’re taken to wherever it is you can’t tell me? What then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know I won’t be satisfied by such a vague answer.”

“I know. It’s just…” She clasped her hands together. “This is a very difficult moment. Much is happening and Mr. —” She stopped short and gave Thomas a quick glance ending with a soft, “and Captain Flint is quite busy.”

He studied her for a long moment, then said, “I want to meet him.”

“What?” she asked.

“Captain Flint. I want to meet him. If he’s half the rational man you say he is, then he will see reason. We can’t possibly stay here.” His head was worse and he’d get up for a glass of wine or water but Abigail was there and he wasn’t dressed properly. “And if anyone assumes they can keep me in this place and I won’t object or bring any force to bear, they are sadly mistaken.”

“Please—”

“I’d like to speak to the captain. Now.”

“He is unavailable.”

“Well, someone will have to make him —”

With a knock, the door opened again. This time it was a stranger, a Negro man of indeterminate age, wearing a faded suit and a wide belt. His cheeks were scarred, each with three marks, as if a tiger or lion had got to him.

“Yes?” Thomas said.

“My name is Mr. Scott. I have been asked by Captain Flint to inform you that we will be anchored for a day, possibly two, while he performs business.” Scott pulled the door closed. “Once this business is complete, we will take you to Eleuthera. At that point you will be ferried to the island so that you can recover from your illness. Miss Abigail has the choice to stay with you or not.”

The cadence of Scott’s voice was most intriguing and if it had been any other time, any other place— “Thank you, Mr. Scott, but no.”

Scott’s expression changed. “No?”

“No. No, I will not be staying on this ship. No, I will not be going to Eleuthera, though I am curious to visit such an interestingly named island, and no, Miss Ashe will not be making any such decision on her own.”

Abigail frowned and started to object, but Thomas quieted her with a short wave of his hand.

“The captain will not want to hear this,” Scott said slowly.

“I don’t give a damn what the captain does or doesn’t want to hear.” He shouldn’t have cursed in front of Abigail but the closed door was beginning to bother him; he touched his head again.

“Your situation—”

“Mr. Scott, our situation is very simple. We are subjects of the Kingdom of Great Britain and as such, we have rights that protect us from harm.”

“Those rights have no meaning in a place like this.”

“Those rights have _more_ meaning in a place like this!”

A smile betrayed Scott’s impassive expression.

“Do you find that humorous?”

“No, sir,” Scott said, his smile disappearing. “There is nothing about this situation I find humorous.”

“Look,” Thomas rubbed his face, suddenly exhausted. “I am a reasonable man, but I will do everything within my power to regain my freedom, should you lock us in.”

“Not us _._ Just you,” Abigail said in a small voice, speaking for the first time since Scott had entered the room.

He turned. “Pardon?”

Abigail got up. “I have hidden one truth from you.”

“And that is?”

“You have been very sick.”

“I realize that. I’ve experienced this before; it will pass.”

“No,” she said, coming closer. “You have been ill for almost two days. When we tried to secure you for your own safety, you fought like a demon. That can’t be normal.”

He glanced at Scott. “I don’t believe you,” he said slowly.

“Mr. Howell,” Scott said, “the ship’s doctor, has been ministering you. He believes you are dependent upon opium or laudanum. He believes this dependency will most likely bring you to point of instability. He is advising that we keep you confined until you are recovered.”

“I am not dependent on anything.”

“Sir—”

Decorum bedamned, he swung his legs over the side of the berth and stood up, keeping one hand on the frame for support. “I am not dependent on opium or any such thing!” he said, denying the rising panic, forcing his voice to remain calm, reasonable. “If it’s anything, it’s a tropical fever.”

Abigail clasped her hands together. “You are sweating.”

He touched his temple; it was wet with moisture. “Be that as it may—”

“And you are shouting.”

“Abigail—”

_“Thomas—”_

The door opened, just a hair, interrupting both Thomas and Abigail.

Thomas couldn’t see who was at the door but Scott could. He went to the door and he and the visitor had a brief conversation. Then the door closed again. Whatever the exchange, it did not make Scott happy but his tone was mild when he said, “If we offer you run of the ship, will that ease your mind as to our intentions?”

Thomas closed his eyes briefly as the odd panic receded. The sea air had previously felt cool; now it felt cold. “That will be fine, Mr. Scott.”

Abigail hurried forward. “You’re shivering. You need rest.”

“I’ve been sleeping for hours,” he protested even while he let himself be guided back to bed.

Scott watched them, then turned to go.

“Mr. Scott?”

‘Yes?”

“Does that window open?” He pointed to the far side of the cabin.

Scott nodded.

“Would you open it, please?”

Without a word, Scott went to the window and opened it.

“Thank you.”

Scott hesitated, then bowed his head and left the cabin.

Even while thinking he needed to apologize to Abigail, he closed his eyes and was asleep.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

“And then?”

“And then he quieted. He let Miss Abigail put him to bed.”

“He’s asleep?”

“For now.”

James stroked his beard. The sun had dropped—he’d need to light the lanterns soon. “What did he say about the plan to take him to Eleuthera after we get the gold?”

“I believed it best not to give details. I told him of the island but not the treasure.”

James nodded.

“He seemed more agitated about being locked up than anything else.”

He nodded again. What had they done to Thomas in that place?

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“I have only spoken briefly with this man but he strikes me as a very intelligent person.”

_That’s not the half of it. Intelligent, inquisitive and damnably committed once he’s decided on a plan of action._ “He is.”

“If that is true, then how long do you think you can keep him in that condition?”

“It’s the best I can do for now. He has my cabin while I’m sleeping on the gun deck.”

“You know what I mean.”

James got up. He’d had the small desk placed on the quarterdeck. From this position, he could command the ship while keep in view of the men. Hopefully, none of them would realize he was actually in hiding. “I need him to get well. If Mr. Howell is right and it will be weeks before he’s better, then he needs quiet and isolation with no possible supply of laudanum.”

“And a guard?”

He nodded. “And a guard. On Eleuthera, he can have all that. The English settlement is small but relatively safe.”

Scott hesitated, then said, “When are you going to tell me who he is?”

_‘When he’s far, far away from here.’_ “What does the crew think?”

Scott tightened his lips at the misdirection but just said, “They are curious as to why we’re anchored out of sight from Nassau. They are curious as to why we are not searching for the gold this minute.”

“Do they know I sent Boyle to investigate?”

“I do not know. Mr. Silver asked after him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you ordered Boyle off to the house to guard it.”

He nodded, satisfied, then asked, “About our guest, is there any talk of ransom?”

“Not yet. However, once he moves among the crew, they’ll know what he is.”

‘ _What,_ ’ not ‘ _who._ ’ He stroked his beard again in frustration. It was a damnable situation. They had to avoid Nassau in case their thieves got wind of their arrival but they couldn’t leave to take Thomas to Eleuthera because the men would revolt. To add to the difficulties, Thomas was so clearly of the world that provided a living to these men. They weren’t stupid—eventually one would think of ransom. The best thing for it was just keep Thomas locked up but he’d heard Thomas, heard the panic in his voice. What had those bastards _done_ to him?”

“Captain?”

He straightened up. “Will you please find out if cook has any fresh vegetables?”

“For our guest?”

James glanced up from under his brow. “Yes,” he said, waiting for Scott’s censure, which came quickly.

“You are playing a very dangerous game. You realize this, yes?”

“Yes,” he answered, just as quick with no explanation. “Have you seen Mr. Silver?”

Scott sighed. “That is what I was going to tell you earlier—Billy found him on the trim, trying to see into your cabin windows. He said he was ensuring that the glass was clean.”

James slammed his fist on the rail. “Damn him! He’s like a monkey with that curiosity of his.” He shook his head, and then asked, “What did Billy do?”

“He told Mr. Silver that you didn’t need clean windows and that our recent prize had not yet been cataloged so he should get to it.”

“What did Silver say?”

“I didn’t ask but I imagine it was something colorful.”

“Thank you for telling me. After you’ve relayed my request to cook, please make sure that Silver is where he’s supposed to be.”

“I will.”

“I don’t need to tell you what to do if Boyle returns, do I?”

Scott smiled briefly. “You do not.”

_A dangerous game_ , he thought. Yes, it was incredibly dangerous, but no game. If any of the men found out who Thomas was…

He went to the bench and sat down, knees on elbows.

It was like living in a dream, these past two days. Mind racing with questions and suppositions, he’d walked as if in a fog, made decisions with only half his attention because every thought, every particle of his being was in a state of shock: Thomas was alive.

Thomas was _alive_.

In the space of a heartbeat, he’d stepped from a world where Thomas was dead to a world where he was not, and in that moment everything changed. It was amazing. It was incredible.

It was sheer and utter torture.

After he’d recovered from finding Thomas on the _James,_ he’d had him carried onto the Man o’ War and put in his cabin. It was the only solution he could think of, one fraught with risks, not only because he had to keep Thomas’s identity from the crew but also because he couldn’t seem to stay away. Even now, struggling with the howsand whys _,_ with the import, he only wanted to be by Thomas’s side. It was a compulsion, this need to see _,_ and he’d caught himself heading towards his cabin more than a few times just to have a look.

The night before, when everyone but the watch was asleep, he’d slipped from his borrowed hammock without thought and stole barefoot to his cabin. He hadn’t done anything foolish; he’d just rested his cheek and palm against the door, taking comfort in the fact that Thomas was a mere twenty feet away. After a moment, he’d realized what he was doing and snuck away, ashamed at his momentary weakness.

Since then, he’d ignored the hourly impulses to look in on Thomas, focusing on the business of running the ship. He updated Dufresne’s accounting ledger and reviewed Billy’s inventory of the provisions. He’d plotted the course to Eleuthera and then back to Nassau. Before evening mess, he’d decided on a break and got out a book. He tried to concentrate on the words, unable to because his cabin windows were open and he could hear when Thomas awoke and called out for Abigail, when he grew angry, his voice rising.

He’d hurried to his cabin, finding Scott outside the room, listening while Abigail and Thomas talked. Howell and one of the new recruits were there, too, pretending that they weren’t eavesdropping. James jerked his head and with a sheepish glance, Howell escorted the recruit outside.

James had listened intently, not liking the tenor of Thomas’s tone. When Thomas demanded to see the captain, he whispered to Scott, “Handle this. Say anything, but calm him down.”

Scott had nodded and James thought that would be the end of it until Abigail foolishly mentioned Howell’s conclusions. Even then he would have left it alone but he found he couldn’t bear Thomas’s distress. He’d pushed the door open, just a crack so that Thomas wouldn’t be able to see him, and gestured for Scott. In a whisper, he told Scott to grant Thomas access to the entire ship. He returned to the quarterdeck, afraid he’d cast good sense to the wind and tell Thomas himself.

He hadn’t needed Scott’s report to tell him the concession had worked—he’d heard no sound from Thomas since then.

“Captain Flint?”

He jerked his head up. Abigail was climbing to the deck; he rose to help her up the last of the steps. “How is he?”

“He is angry and confused. He refuses to eat.” Abigail sat in front of his desk. “He is very ill.”

“I know.”

“Doctor Howell insists it is the laudanum that is making him so volatile. How is that possible?”

He sat down, then reached over and lit the lantern. “What do you mean?”

“When I was kidnapped by Captain Low and then Captain Vane, they forced laudanum upon me. It brought a pleasant feeling and sleepfullness and nothing more.”

“Do you remember the day we set sail for Charles Town?”

“It was but a handful of days past; of course, I do.”

“Do you remember asking about the ships along the coast?”

“Yes. The _wrecks_ , you called it.”

“What I didn’t tell you was within the wrecks is a camp, haunted by the dregs of Nassau society.”

She frowned. “Go on.”

“In an effort to forget whatever it is they can’t forget, these men have become opium eaters. They live among the wrecks and die among the wrecks. They know no life than that of opium. They are hollowed out shells of their former selves and I mean that quite literally. In their pursuit of their dreams, they forget to eat, forget to bathe, forget to care for themselves.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because laudanum contains opium. Because I won’t have Thomas descend further. Because I want him to _live.”_

“I did not know that,” she said after a moment. “About the opium, I mean. I think I understand.”

“Good.” He picked up his quill and ran the feathers over his fingers. “You made no mention of me, I hope?”

“Now, that I do not understand.” She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “He once was your friend, yes?”

“He was.”

“Then why won’t you tell him who you are? Why won’t you visit him?”

_‘Because he’s been through enough; because he can’t know that the man he once called,_ ‘the only light I see,’ _has turned into something that parents use as a cautionary tale to frighten their children into good behavior. Because I murdered his father and I would gladly do it again.’_ “Because it’s imperative that you and he are not linked to myself nor the pirates of Nassau. As soon as he is recovered, the two of you must return to Charles Town.”

“And you think taking us to Eleuthera is the best option?”

“At the moment, it’s the _only_ option. Thomas needs a place of peace and safety while he clears his body of the opiate. We don’t have time to return to Charles Town but I can bring him to Eleuthera. Once I’m done with my business on shore, we will set sail.”

“Do you truly mean to allow him the run of the ship or was that just a lie to appease him?”

“It was the truth.”

“I believe it a mistake.”

Stung, he almost growled, “The mistake was coming to this place, to have allowed _him_ to come here.”

Her back went up. “I told you, he insisted.”

“No, _you_ insisted and he could do nothing but accompany you. You must take responsibility for your actions in this.”

She frowned deeply. “You are right. I was responsible. But I am convinced this plan of yours will not work.”

“It will.”

“Conduct your business from the shore while Lord—”

_“Abigail!”_

She stopped quickly and looked around to see if anyone had heard. James looked, as well—there was no one nearby.

When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to a whisper. “Do you understand? If _I_ cannot keep from speaking his true name, how can you? For that matter, how can he? He was raving that first night.” She flushed and looked down at her lap. “Saying the most distressing things.”

He’d heard, sitting on the rail above the cabin windows, glowering at anyone who came near, he’d listened to Thomas mutter and shout. He hadn’t been able to make out actual words, only understanding that Thomas was in great distress. “What things?”

“He called out several times for Mrs. Barlow. He mentioned a man, a man he seemed deeply afraid of.” She frowned. “This man seemed to have hurt him in some way. It’s been the only time I’ve heard him curse.”

He clenched his jaw. “What else?”

“He mentioned someone named Jonathan. At least, I think that was the name; his speech was very slurred.”

“Who is this Jonathan?”

“I think it must be the pastor in Charles Town. His name is Jonathan Reynolds.”

“He’s a friend of Thomas’s?”

“They seemed to know one another quite well.”

“I see.” And then, because he _had_ to ask, “Did he speak of me?”

“No.”

It shouldn’t hurt so much that delirium or not, Thomas hadn’t mentioned him at all. Did that mean Thomas had forgotten him completely or was it just the laudanum? “Anything else?”

Instead of answering, she hesitated, then took something from her skirt pocket. It was a slim, flat box made of a dark wood, inlayed with ivory. She set the box on her lap and said, “When I escaped from Charles Town, I was unsure as to what would happen to me. My father’s solicitor in London held his will as well as my inheritance documents—my father told me this when my mother died. I’d heard of family fortunes lost during times of war so I searched my father’s desk in his room. I thought, if I found anything important, I’d take it with me to keep it safe.” She shook her head. “I found nothing but a few journals detailing executions and criminal trials. My father, it seemed, was very careful to ensure that his personal papers were well hidden.”

She touched the box. “But not so careful as to conceal this. It was in the bottom drawer under a package of sealing wax.” She opened the lid and showed it to James.

From what he could see, the box contained receipts, documents and letters.

“I took it, not knowing what it held. When I read them, I didn’t understand them. But after the other night…” She gave him the box, her gaze direct and sad. “After the other night with Thomas, much has been made clear.”

“Are you sure you want me to read these?”

She nodded. “When you do, please understand that because of those letters, I know a little of what Thomas has experienced during these last nine years. I feel that it is dangerous to keep him in that cabin, no matter how big, no matter how short the stay.” She pressed her lips together as if in pain. “I believe it would be beneficial for him to be in a place where he is free to go where he will. To do anything else would be a cruelty beyond anything I believe you capable.”

Her tone was calm and maybe it was that calm that made her words so horrifying. He cleared his throat and asked, “What do you suggest?”

“Mrs. Barlow told me of the house you built for her. I am sure it is not what he is accustomed to, but he’ll be—”

“No! We already discussed that. He won’t be safe on the island!” Never mind the wasp’s nest that was Nassau, there were the plantation owners and the merchants, not to speak of the Navy—no one could be trusted, not with what was coming down the pike.

“He’ll be better off there, than here.” She glanced at the few men on deck. “I know why you don’t want the men to interact with him. It’s perilous for him. But, far better he face the lesser peril of the island than an environment he knows nothing of. Besides which,” she added, “it means you can concentrate on finding your treasure.”

He sat back, stunned at the logic of her words. “A few days ago, you could barely speak to me and now—” He made a gesture, taking in her manner, now grave and serious beyond her years.

She turned and stared out over the dark water, thinking a long moment. “That is true; I am much changed. I saw my father whom I loved betray a woman I’d grown to care for. I saw her body most horribly exposed for a public who hated her without knowing her. I saw you, shackled and bound, betrayed, as well.”

He winced at the memory but brushed the pain aside. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

She nodded. “I suppose it’s because I’m no longer the girl I was. Circumstances have forced this change upon me. And…” She turned back towards him. “I suppose it’s because I like Thomas. This entire time, he’s only been concerned for my safety at the cost of his own and that has taught me something. He’s a good man.”

His hands clenched around the box and he said through a throat tight with emotion, “He is.”

She leaned forward. “Through those letters I have come to realize how much Thomas means to you. After what my father did to you, Thomas, and Mrs. Barlow, I would like to make reparations in any way I can. If caring for him while he’s recovering helps in any way, I am eager to do it.”

There was nothing he could say to that; after a moment, Abigail rose. “I need to look in on Thomas. Dr. Howell said his spells will come and go.”

“Thank you.”

She turned to the ladder, then paused. “About the letters?”

“Yes?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Four are from Lord Alfred Hamilton; I have shown them to Thomas. The sixth is from Thomas, himself. He does not know I have it. I suggest you read them in a place where you can be undisturbed and unheard. They will make you angry.”

And then she was gone, leaving him wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

***

He had to wait until after late mess to sneak away. Feeling a bit foolish, he took a lantern and found a space in the hold behind a pyramid of flour barrels. He didn’t know what to expect and it was with great trepidation that he opened the box and took out the first piece of paper.

It was nothing much, just a receipt of sale for ridiculously expensive signet ring with a carving of the Queen. The second, third and fourth sheets were also receipts for men’s jewelry, the fifth being marked, _walking stick, fifty-nine and three-quarters of an inch, ash with silver chased head._

He frowned and set the receipts aside and picked up the next paper, a letter:

_Lord Peter Ashe  
London_

_My dear sir. I write this to thank you for your letter of the 15th, though I hardly know what to say other than my Disgust knows no bounds. You will be so good as to Inform of any more Offences perpetrated by Thomas. You will also be so good as to keep the details to yourself._

_A. Hamilton_

The letter wasn’t dated but he had a rough idea when it had been written. Feeling a hot burning in the center of his chest, he read the next:

_Peter Ashe  
London_

_My dear boy and I feel I can call you that after months of you acting on my behalf, I write this to inform you that the deed is done. I have met with Adm. Hennessey and he has agreed to our proposal. As soon as Lt. McGraw returns from the West Indies, he is to be summarily dismissed and stripped of all medals and decorations. If I had my way, he’d meet the Gallows but Hennessey refuses the request. I would fight him on this but want this whole ordeal behind me. I don’t have to tell you that my position at court requires that this be handled with all possible discretion. My men will come for my son either this week or next. You have asked that this be a temporary arrangement and tho I’m reluctant, I can give you that. My son will be confined at the Hospital until this Repulsive sin is cleansed from his soul._

_Yrs_

_A.H._

So, Miranda had been right. Alfred Hamilton and Peter Ashe had orchestrated the whole thing. Together, they had destroyed him and with full intent, had committed Thomas to Bedlam. The burning in his chest had grown to a small fire and he almost wanted not to read the next:

_Court of Governors_  
Bethlem Royal Hospital  
Moorfields

_As solicitor for L. Alfred Hamilton, I am writing at his request as a follow-up to my visit of the 21st. I informed Lord Hamilton that I personally viewed Thomas Hamilton wandering the grounds without guard or the caretaker my firm has engaged. Lord Hamilton has requested me to remind you of our agreement, to wit: that Thomas Hamilton is to remain indoors, away from all visitors. You are authorized to use minimal force to obtain his compliance, if needed. I trust I will not have to write again._

_J.S. Spencer, Esq._

Minimal force. _Minimal force._ He read the next two quickly, almost panting with growing anger:

_P.A._  
London, England  
April, 1710

_I write from my holdings on Harbor Island to inform you that I have done as you requested and have obtained the papers. You may retrieve him from that place after Thomas Allen, Administrator, has received the letter of release from the Court of Governors. I hope you know what you are doing. The one thing I require is that you move him somewhere out of London. Since he was so enamored of the New World, he can end his days there. I suggest a home in Carolina away from all polite Society._

_A.H._

_Lord Peter Ashe_  
Province of Carolina  
December, 1710

_Dear Peter, I trust this letter finds you well. I am writing from Boston where it is very dirty and very cold. I have had word from Lord Harrison that your Plan to re-enforce and re-configure the Harbor has been met with great enthusiasm. You are doing good work my boy. Keep it up and you will one day play a big part in the administration of the Carolinas._

_Yrs,  
A.H._

Unlike the other letters, the last was in less than pristine condition. It was creased as if someone had balled it up, then smoothed it out again. He unfolded it, his stuttering breath catching as he recognized the script, the perfect slant of each character, the strong caps and elegant curls. Thomas himself had written this letter and he read eagerly:

_P_

_As I think you and I will never meet again due to our last conversation, I am making amends thru this letter for the good of both our souls. It has been 3 weeks since you left Wadmalaw and though I do not regret the content of my words, I regret being cruel and obtuse. I know you want the best for me. I know you care for me. You gave me shelter and safety as well as a simulacrum of a position within a society no longer mine. What you perhaps do not understand is that I am no longer complete. If I were to accept your offer, it would only be a temporary escape from the inescapable. I have nothing left to give. My body is useless, pointless. When they took James from me, they took everything. It is as simple as that. If you can bring yourself to accept my terms of limited friendship, poor as they are, I am ready to do the same. Until then, I remain your friend,_

_T_

He read the final letter twice, the second time shaking and bent over like an old man, trying to contain the rage that now poured from his soul. He’d known Peter had betrayed them to Alfred Hamilton, but he’d done so because—

He dropped the box and the letters unheeding to the ground and straightened to grip the rim of a barrel, seeing the wood and iron through a feeble red haze.

He had given Peter a chance, back in Charles Town. He had asked, ‘ _Why did you betray those closest to you all those years ago? Was it really so small and vile as a bribe?’_

Even then he’d thought it a straightforward matter of cowardice. He’d thought Peter avaricious and grasping, seeking the main chance by the easiest way possible. He’d never thought it was so much more.

_I have nothing left to give. My body is useless, pointless…_

And…

_When they took James from me, they took everything…_

Like a sly, goddamn _thief,_ Peter had stolen Thomas’s soul and all Thomas could do was apologize for—

“Stop.”

_This man seemed to have hurt him in some way._

Had Peter taken advantage of Thomas? Had he tortured or raped him?

_“Stop!”_

He ignored the hushed command, the figure at his side, imagining it, Thomas beneath Peter, struggling to free himself only to have—

Hands gripped his own. “Captain Flint,” came the soft voice, “you are hurting yourself!”

He turned his head, feeling every inch of the movement as if he’d transformed into stone. It was Abigail. She was trying to lift his fists from the rim of the barrel.

He snarled and let go, grabbing her shoulders instead. He shook her, ignoring her cry of pain. “Did you know?” he hissed. “Did you know why your father betrayed us? Did you know he was in lo—”

A body hit him, strong and powerful. He released Abigail and was shoved across the hold deck until his back was against the hull, shoulders pinned. He jerked, snarling without words, finding his captor to be Scott.

“You must calm down,” Scott said. “What ever is the trouble, it is not this girl’s doing!”

He was panting, drawing short breaths through his clenched teeth. “Let me go!”

He jerked again and Scott squeezed, his hands like steel, shoving him against the hull once more. “Not until you collect yourself!”

Unable to do more than pant and growl, James closed his eyes and let his head drop.

He’d seen men do the most horrible things. Murder, rape, beatings; mayhem done in the heat of the moment. Hell, he’deven taken part in his share of the murder and mayhem.

But this cool-headed, _willful_ conspiracy perpetrated by two powerful men: the one who had loved Thomas and the one who should have… It was the most despicable thing he’d ever come across. “If I could, I’d kill them again,” he heard himself murmur. “If I’d known, they would still be alive so I could hurt them again and again and again.”

“Captain.”

He raised his head and opened his eyes. Scott was watching him carefully.

“I’d do it, too,” he said through a savage grin. “I’d string them up and have at them until there was nothing left but blood and bone.”

Scott said nothing and in the face of that calm, James’s anger finally quieted and then fled. He sighed and rested his head back against the hull. His jaw hurt. “I am better,” he whispered.

Scott stared at him for another long moment, then gradually eased his grip. “You have been living among beasts for so long, I fear you turning into one of them.”

He cracked a smile. “I think we both know it’s a little too late for that.” When Scott didn’t answer, he straightened up and said evenly, “I am recovered.”

“How can I believe that?”

“You can’t.” This time when he pushed, Scott released him. “But I am.”

He turned and peered into the gloom, seeking Abigail. She was near the ladder, wrapped around it as if a single wrong move would send her flying. Her dress and throat were smeared with blood.

He looked down at his hands. The iron rim of the barrel had sliced open his palms. He held up his hands in peace. “Abigail, forgive me.”

She didn’t move and he went to her. Watching her every reaction, he said gently, “You warned me but I wasn’t prepared. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“I don’t know how any one could prepare for that kind of news. It was monstrous.” Surprisingly, she darted forward and embraced him, then stepped back out of reach. “I came to tell you that Mr. Silver was asking after you. I didn’t want—” She gestured, taking in the hold, the letters on the floor.

“Thank you.”

“Will you be all right?” She nodded to his hands.

“They’re shallow and this isn’t the first time I’ve been injured. Mr. Howell will take care of it.” Blood dripped to his wrists; he pressed his palms together to staunch the wounds. “In the meantime, prepare your things.” His plan, formed the minute Scott had freed him, was perfect in its every detail.

“We’re leaving?”

“Tonight. You were right; it’s best if you and Thomas were far away from here.”

If she heard the truth behind his words, the brutal, _‘It’s best if you and Thomas were far away from_ me _,’_ she didn’t give any indication. Scott, however, gave him a long look, then nodded his agreement and escorted Abigail out of the hold.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

He stopped asking questions once they were in the boat. His imprisonment, though relatively benign and very short-lived, had left its mark and he breathed deep the clean sea air. He was feeling odd again, disconnected, as if his body wasn’t his body and his mind wasn’t his mind.

The absurd thought made him smile; he tipped his head to the night sky. Though the moon was on the wane, it cast enough light to spark off the water and he watched the waves flow by. So beautiful. Being on the water was almost magical, almost serene. Even the slap of the oars held its own attraction. He glanced up. “Do you need assistance?”

The big one from the other night, the one that seemed more boy than man, frowned and answered, “Beg pardon?”

Thomas pointed to the third set of oars. “With the rowing—I can help if you like.”

“Just rest,” Scott said at Thomas’s back. “The journey is short.”

“What is your name?” he asked.

The boy glanced at Scott, then said again, “Beg pardon?”

“I know Mr. Scott’s name. I know the captain’s name.” The boy didn’t answer and he added, “It’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? You presumably know my name and you presumably know my situation.”

“No,” the boy said with a shake of his head. “We know nothing of you, including your name.”

Interesting that he seemed angry at the lack of knowledge, interesting that he’d used the word, _‘we.’_ “Then let us rectify that. My name is Thomas Martin, late of Charles Town, Carolina.”

Abigail, seated across from him, raised her eyebrow. He’d never told her his assumed name and had, indeed, forgotten it until now.

“My name is William. William Manderly,” the boy said, again looking over Thomas’s shoulder to Scott. “I’m from here.”

He smiled briefly at Billy’s words, at his obvious confusion. “It is very good to meet you, Mr. Manderly.”

Billy said nothing.

“What was that you were wearing?”

Billy frowned. “Beg pardon?” he said for the third time.

“The night you took me and Miss Ashe from the _James._ You were wearing some type of decoration on your face and body. I assume it was to imitate the natives of the New World? _”_

Billy shrugged, clearly ill at ease and Thomas gave up for the moment. “Never mind. I’ll ask again later if we get the chance to talk.” He turned and glanced up at the ship. Seen from this angle, the ship seemed impossibly huge and properly terrifying. A light flashed and then again. He squinted. A man was at the prow; he was watching them through a spyglass. When the man saw he was being watched in return, he moved back into the shadows.

“Was that the captain?” Thomas said.

“Who?” came a trio of replies.

“There was a man on the ship. He was looking at us through his spyglass device.”

“That would be the watch,” Scott said.

He raised his eyebrow but just nodded. It could have been the watch. It could have been anyone. But—and he didn’t know how he knew this–it was neither. Captain Flint had returned from his business onshore and had been observing their departure.

He settled back in his seat. Did they think him a child, that he didn’t know they were all lying; not just about the captain, but about every little thing?

From the first, when Abigail and Scott had woken him in the dark of the night with the news they must leave immediately, he’d known something was afoot.

Other than saying the journey was short, Abigail hadn’t answered when he’d asked about their destination just as she hadn’t answered when he’d asked if they were in danger from the captain and crew.

With no choice and a measure of undeniable curiosity, he had allowed himself to be dressed in a shirt and breeches that weren’t his and didn’t fit, then put into a device that lowered him into a waiting boat. It was only then that he’d realized they were anchored close enough to the shore that he could see a bright spots of light along the coast, the nearest being on the beach ahead. Which meant people, which meant possible new dangers.

He sighed, suddenly very tired.

“Are you unwell?” Abigail said the second after he’d sighed.

He forced a smile. “I am fine.”

She leaned forward and touched his arm. “Are you sure?”

“Quite. And it wouldn’t matter if I was, as this…” His smile became more true. “…is a very short journey.”

She hesitated, and then sat back and said nothing.

***

They made straight for the bright light, sliding onto the sand quite deftly when they reached the shore. Billy jumped out, followed by Scott; they grabbed hold of the boat and dragged it further up. Feeling more than useless, Thomas rose only to be stopped by Abigail.

She grabbed his sleeve and said, “It’s best if you just let them—our weight is nothing to them.”

That was hardly the point but he couldn’t say that and he waited until they were settled and Billy had given him an arm before gingerly climbing out.

“How do you stand it?” he asked, wading through the shallow surf, almost falling at one point when the sand gave way.

“How do I stand what?”

“Wet shoes, wet stockings?” They were at the waterline and he shook his wet shoes, one after the other. “How do you stand it?”

Billy frowned. “Go barefoot?”

He almost laughed at that. “Mr. Manderly, that is a very logical answer.” The bright light was actually a square of torches mounted on poles. In the center was a cart and horse with no attendant and no driver. It was most bizarre.

“It’s not logic. It’s fact.”

“Indeed.” The sand, though less firm was more level and he gently stepped free of Billy’s grasp.

“Come,” Scott said, gesturing to the cart. “I will drive you. Billy will stay here.”

Thomas turned to Billy and held out his hand. “Thank you for your assistance. Mr. Manderly.”

Billy looked at Thomas’s hand and then nodded but made no move. After a moment, Thomas dropped his hand. He glanced at Abigail; she was watching the exchange with a little frown. “Shall we be on our way?” he asked with false cheerfulness. He was starting to feel dizzy. He needed to sit down and sit down soon.

***

The ride in the cart was less than enjoyable. The difference between the ocean and the road was extreme and he held onto the post, wanting to be back on the ship where the going was smooth, not rough.

“Mr. Scott?” Abigail asked.

“Yes?”

“Since my first journey with Captain Flint, I have been treated with respect.”

“Yes.”

“Then why did Billy refuse to shake hands with Mr. Martin?” When Scott said nothing, she added, “You are taking us to an unfamiliar house so I ask you again, is there something we should know?”

“The men are anxious to be on their way,” Scott answered slowly.

“Is that all?”

“It’s all that concerns you, miss.”

“Does it have to do with the treasure from the _Urca de Lima?”_

Scott turned around. “How did you know about the gold?”

“I overheard the Captain speak of it.”

“Miss Ashe, I cannot speak to you about ship’s matters. The captain wouldn’t approve.”

“Surely you can say why Billy is afraid of Mr. Martin?”

After a moment, Scott shrugged. “He is not afraid, but some of the men are calling Mr. Martin unlucky.” He paused, adding, “We hurry to leave Charles Town. We hurry to Nassau. We hurry to take a prize. Only, when we take this prize we stop for two days with no word from the captain. It is unusual to say the least and this comes after months of very unusual events.”

Thomas, following the exchange with less and less attention, brought his head up. In all that had happened, he’d somehow forgotten that Miranda would have recently sailed with the same ship he’d just disembarked from. If he had only known…

“Where is this gold, now?” he heard himself say, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. The airy happiness that had come from being off the ship was gone, leaving him adrift with that awful sense of weightlessness.

“I do not know.”

“Perhaps Flint has it; he is a pirate, after all and that’s what pirates do.”

“Thomas?” Abigail said, putting her hand on his. “Are you unwell? Do we need to stop?”

_No,_ he started to say, then, _“Yes,”_ as his stomach rebelled. He scrambled out of the cart before Scott could stop and he fell to his knees in the dirt. He retched, then again, with no success. “My belly, thankfully, is empty,” he joked weakly as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Abigail had kneeled to help him. She handed him a handkerchief that he waved away. “This damnable illness will not desist.”

She didn’t answer.

“Come.” Scott had joined them. “It’s not far to the house. If you and Miss Ashe prefer, you can walk while I drive the cart.”

“I think that would be best,” Thomas said, getting to his feet with Scott’s help. “I seem to have lost my land legs.” The little sally was lost on Scott and Abigail and he sighed. “Mr. Scott, we will follow if you will lead.”

***

With the aid the cart’s lantern, he and Abigail finished their journey on foot.

The property was indeed situated close by and when they walked up to the porch, they found the yard and house brightly lit.

“I never thought to ask,” Thomas mused, trying to catch his breath. His breathing was labored, no doubt due to the strain of the walk and the dusty road. “Who lives here? Where are they?”

Scott began to unload the cart, saying, “No one lives here at the moment. Captain Flint sent a man to prepare the house for us.”

“Odd.” They were at the door and he rested his hand against the jamb.

Abigail turned the doorknob; it didn’t budge. “What is odd?”

“That he should be so thoughtful.”

“Who?”

“Captain Flint.”

With both hands, Abigail turned the knob and it gave, the door opening with a soft whine. “I told you,” she said, wiping her palms on her dress, “he is not the man you think he is.”

“Yes, you did,” he said as he walked into the house. “Several times, in fact.” The lantern in the window shone weakly on a table and chairs and beyond, a dark kitchen. Scott came in with two small crates and an old flour sack. “What are those?”

“Things you might need—clean clothes and food.”

He reached for the sack, but Abigail stopped him with a soft touch. “That can wait,” she said. “You should rest.”

He thought to argue but she had a look he’d come to recognize. “Very well.”

He gestured for her to show him the way, but she looked to Scott; Scott picked up the lantern and the sack and started down the hall.

As they followed, Thomas asked, “You’ve not been here before?”

“No.”

“But you know who lives here?”

“‘Lived,’” she said, “The owner is no longer in residence.”

“Ah,” he said, though he didn’t understand. “He was tidy, I’ll give him that,” he added when he saw the bedroom. It was complete with a modest four-post bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and a desk. There was even a bookshelf in the corner and he went to it. “He’s well read.” He touched one of the spines— _La Galatea._

“Yes?” Abigail said.

He watched her out of the corner of her eye. She was examining the room with great intent as she lit the candles on the desk and washstand—clearly, she’d never been here, either.

“The linens are fresh,” Scott said. He’d opened the sack and placed the contents on the washstand. “The water comes from a well. It will not make you sick.”

“Good; I’m parched.”

“You have everything you need for now. If not, I will find it for you tomorrow in Nassau.”

He knew nothing of Scott other than he was a pirate, but there was something about him, some quiet manner that inspired confidence and trust and right now, he needed both, _Abigail_ needed both. “You are returning to the ship?”

Scott shook his head. “The captain asked me to stay the night and the night after. Then, we shall all return.”

“I am glad. I’ll rest easier knowing you are nearby.”

Scott said nothing for a moment, though Thomas could see he’d surprised him. “Miss Ashe? If you will, I’ll show you to your room.”

Abigail nodded, then said to Thomas, “If you need anything, please let me know.”

“I will.”

“Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

Abigail closed the door behind her and Thomas was alone. He picked up a candle and put it by the bed. The stack of clothes turned out to be several breeches, a pair of trousers, three shirts, two pair of smallclothes, stockings and even a good pair of brown leather shoes.

Gratefully, he stripped off and pulled on the smallclothes and the shirt. The clothes were stained but clean and that’s all he cared about.

He went to the mirror and peered at himself. The surface was mottled from time and the damp but even so, he could see enough to realize he was looking the worse for wear. A bath and a razor would suit him just fine but Abigail was right—he needed rest. Promising himself he’d take care of his light beard in the morning, he snuffed out the candle, then picked up his coat and went to the bed. He sat.

He didn’t move for the longest time, thinking about the past few days, about Doctor Howell’s admonitions and instructions: _‘Laudanum isn’t the harmless physic some may think it; in the end, it will have you. Best to nip this in the bud.’_

Delicately, he had argued with Howell, not wanting to point out that while at Bethlem, his daily ration had been much larger than the small amount he now took. Laudanum didn’t hurt one. In fact, one could argue it was laudanum that had kept him sane, laudanum that had helped him forget.

Troubled, he removed the last of his vials from the inside pocket of his coat and held it to the light. Only this one left and no more to come. Unless he became a thief and stole it.

He pushed the disturbing notion aside and unstoppered the vial. He put it to his lips and paused. At the moment, he was in a relatively calm mood. Perhaps he should save the rest for a time of need. Mr. Scott said they’d be back on the ship in two day’s time—who knew what form that journey would take? Would they be sequestered again, this time in a much smaller cabin? The very idea made his stomach roil and he capped the vial and put it back in his coat.

Sighing, he got up and went to the window. He unlatched it and stood there, relishing the cool breeze, the chorus of frogs so loud they seemed to be chirping right below the window.

It was good to be off that ship, good to be back on steady land. If he still felt a touch disoriented, that was to be expected, given the circumstances. He pushed the window wider, then returned to the bed and got in.

The linens were surprisingly fine and smelled of lavender and lemon, familiar scents that reminded him of home. He turned on his side, buried his face in the pillow and closed his eyes.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

Unable to help himself, James found a dark corner on the weather deck and watched Thomas and Abigail disembark. Thomas moved well, but there was something off about his bearing. He’d always carried himself effortlessly, gracefully. Now, he walked with caution and care, taking small steps across the deck to the cradle.

Near the cutout, he swayed and grabbed the mainsail rope for support. No one noticed but James, and he had to cross his arms in an effort to stay hidden, to not hurry to Thomas’s side.

It could be the ship, this new awkwardness. Many men took weeks, sometimes months, to accustom themselves to the rock of the boat. It could be simple fatigue from the two voyages. It could also be the laudanum, or lack thereof. Thomas was at least four days clean of the drug, enough time, or so Howell said, to start to feel better. It was worrisome, therefore, that Thomas didn’t _seem_ better. What if he never recovered? What if he remained the same frail shell of the man James once knew?

The thought made his chest hurt and he shrugged it away; he’d worry about it later.

Ignoring the fact that if he had his way, Thomas would be back in Charles Town before the month was out and there’d be no reason to worry, he stepped from the shadows and got out his spyglass. The moon was waxing and its bright glow cast more than enough light to see the boat’s passengers. He watched, glass pressed tight to his eye with an unsettling sense of loss. Strangely, it was at that moment that Thomas turned around and looked up at him, arrow straight.

James knew he hadn’t been seen clearly, but prudence made him drop the glass and step back into the shadows.

“Can’t sleep?”

He allowed himself no sudden movement, no sign of shock. When he answered Silver, his voice was full of serene boredom. “Just ensuring that our unwanted guests are on their way.”

“Yes, about that…” Silver came to stand next to him, casually leaning against the ropes. “I’ve been asking around. No one seems to know who the gentleman is. Other than you, of course, and you’re not talking.” Silver sighed dramatically. “You on the inside, me on the outside—it’s all such familiar territory.”

He snapped the glass closed. “You don’t say.”

“I do say. I asked Billy, DeGroot—even Mr. Scott.”

“And?”

“And they wouldn’t answer me.”

“Well, then.”

“Of course,” Silver said nonchalantly, “DeGroot probably doesn’t know as he’s never been in your confidence. But Billy and Mr. Scott?” He smiled. “I know they’re hiding the truth from me.”

“There is no _truth_ to hide.”

“I mentioned as much to Billy before he left, asking why go to the bother of taking two hostages from the _James_ only to let them go with no word of ransom. In the dead of night, no less.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to mind my fucking business, if you must know. When I insisted, he hit me.” Silver laughed and touched his jaw. “He packs a punch, does Billy.”

“Miss Ashe will never be a hostage again. The men know that.”

Silver nodded regretfully. “Yes, but the gentleman, on the other hand…?”

“What about him?”

“I didn’t get the chance to converse with him, but I did manage to hear him speak with Miss Ashe. His clothing said poor merchant, but his voice and vocabulary said something quite different.” Silver gave James a long look from the side of his eye. “Who is he?”

He didn’t answer and it was a short, ugly moment, broken by the splash of oars on water.

“Speak of the devil,” Silver said as they both went to look over the rail.

Billy had tied off the longboat and was climbing hand over hand up the rope ladder. When he reached the top, he slithered over the gunwale with a grunt. “So,” he said as soon as he straightened up, glancing between them. “What’s this, then?”

“Mr. Silver is finding it hard to keep his curiosity in check with regards to Miss Ashe.”

Billy’s face darkened and he took a step forward.

Silver flinched, hands held up. “I’m just trying to allay the crew’s fears. They have a stake in this, too.”

“They have a stake in nothing that concerns Miss Ashe.” Billy advanced; Silver retreated until he was up against the bulwark. “If I find you’ve swayed their minds, you and I will have a very long, very painful conversation. Get me?”

“I do.”

“And that goes for him, too.” Billy jerked his head towards the shore. “Miss Abigail’s companion—when he’s back on board, he’s not to be fucked with, either.”

This time Silver glanced at James before saying mildly, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

James, enjoying the exchange, cracked a very brief smile. Billy had changed since his return from the dead; he’d make a fine captain some day.

Billy jerked his head. “The captain and I need to have a conversation. Alone.”

Silver turned to go, throwing over his shoulder, “I hope that conversation is about the gold because the men are getting impatient.”

James watched him stroll away. “Don’t make an enemy of him, Billy. He’s got the crew in his pocket.”

“He’s not in as much favor as he thinks he is. Most of them don’t know what’s he’s done.”

“How did it go out there?”

He expected a simple, _‘fine,’_ or even, _‘who is he, really?’_ but what he got was a grave, “You were right to get him off the ship.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“He’s got a way about him.”

“And that means?”

Billy shrugged and furrowed his brow. “I don’t know. He’s different somehow. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. He asked me my name and I gave it—my _real_ name, I mean. He talked to me like I was his friend and I didn’t mind it. The men would probably call him a witch. You were right to get him off the ship; he could cause trouble.”

James listened with growing amazement, amusement and no small amount of bitter sadness. Never mind that he tended to speak in single sentences, in the last two hours Billy had seen more of Thomas than he had in the last two days. “In what way?”

“Well,” Billy shifted from foot to foot, frowning at the deck. “He’s a looker, isn’t he? Bad enough we had Miss Ashe to deal with.”

Surprise held his tongue for a long moment, and then he managed a weak, “You think the men would harass him?”

“You could tell them he’s off limits but how many would listen? At least one, maybe two, would make a go for him and then we’d have to deal with it. Then there’s the fact that he’s moneyed, no matter what kind of shit clothes he’s wearing. Rich and pretty are two things we don’t want mucking up the men’s brains. Not now.” Billy looked up. “So, yeah, this way’s better—he’s off the ship and now we can concentrate on what matters.”

Feeling off-center, as if the Man o’ War had taken a heavy swell, he thought on Billy’s words. The life being what it was, women were a luxury, meant for special occasions when they were in port, maybe three or four months out of a year. Women were also bad luck—every pirate knew it. Men and boys, on the other hand, were an every day occurrence. He hadn’t been too concerned that his crew would interfere with Abigail—apparently, he should have been concerned about Thomas.

Though they’d been years apart, he was still used to Thomas’s arresting features, his way of speaking—it was a kind of blindness brought on by loving familiarity. But, now he pictured Thomas in his mind’s eye, seeing him as the men might see him.

_‘I remember what it was like when I first met him,’_ and _‘There’s a feeling one gets—’_

Miranda had been aware of it, and if he hadn’t been living under such a cloud of confused shock for the past few days he would have, too. “So you meant that ‘fucked with’ comment literally?” he said after a moment.

“I did.”

“I—” He shook his head. “Thank you for taking care of them.” He drew a deep breath, changing the subject as smoothly as he knew how. “As to Boyle—we haven’t had word.”

“How long do we wait?”

“Mid-morning at the very latest. We’re out of view save for the most distant plantations but we can’t risk that they’ll see and warn the town.”

“The men will be glad to hear of that.”

“Good. In the morning, make sure a few of the gossips know it.”

Billy nodded and turned away.

Thoughtfully, he watched Billy stride off. Barring any news from Boyle, by morning the men would know he had a plan of action. By afternoon, they’d be well under way. That should keep everyone happy.

He went to the quarterdeck and gathered up his maps, ledgers and books. Though morning was only hours off, it would be good to sleep in his own hammock with his own things about him.

But, when he readied for bed he chose the pallet by the window and not the hammock, thinking the bedding would carry Thomas’s scent. It didn’t, of course, and he lay there a long while before getting back up. Billy’s comments about Thomas and the men echoed in his ears; he wouldn’t be able to sleep without a distraction and the book of Spanish poetry would put him right out. As he was getting out of bed, the blanket fell aside, exposing a bit of fabric caught between the cushion and the window frame. He pulled it free.

In his world, the need to cover one’s body for propriety’s sake didn’t exist and it had been years since he’d worn a neck cloth, years since he’d even touched one. It could only be Thomas’s, left behind in the rush.

He hesitated, then folded it up and lay back down. He turned on his side. With the cloth still firm within his grasp, he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

***

Dreaming of London, he was woken by a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear.

“Captain!”

It was Billy, bent over him. He rubbed his eyes, dispelling the after image of trying to climb the stairs to a large house built on a lake of fire. “What is it?” Through the open window he could see dark sky and not much else.

“Boyle, sir,” Billy jerked his thumb towards a figure in the shadows by the door. “He’s returned with news.”

He rolled out of bed and the neck cloth fell to the floor; he picked it up and stuffed it under the pillow. “Billy, get a light. Mr. Boyle, tell us what you saw.” He got his breeches and stepped into them.

“The _Walrus,_ sir. The _Walrus_ is anchored in the harbor!”

Balancing on one foot, he turned, almost falling over. “Say that again?”

“It’s the _Walrus!_ ”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. I’d know our lady anywhere.”

“Anything else?” He buttoned his breeches and picked up his belt.

“She’s snug up against the _Colonial Dawn._ I think I saw Captain Rackham up on the deck.”

“ _What_?”

Boyle nodded. “I can’t be sure because of the darkness and all, but it seemed like him.”

“Jack Rackham,” he growled, “last we saw, was attempting to purchase a crew.”

“Seems he did it.”

He thought furiously, seeing the missing bits of his puzzle fall into place. Vincent had sold the location of the _Urca_ to Rackham. Rackham had obtained a crew and then gone after the gold. Of course, Rackham was in no position to purchase a ship so he would need a backer, someone to finance the venture. With Eleanor out of the way, that would have left only a handful of financiers but he’d bet good money that it had been the girl, Max.

He finished dressing, talking quickly, his plan formulating on the spot, “This is what we’re going to do—we’ll round the point just past the atoll and anchor within a mile of Hog Island. Then, we’ll leave a handful of men to guard the ship while the rest take the longboats out. We’ll keep to the deepest part of the channel. If we’re careful, we’ll avoid the shoals as well as the reef. Once we’re close to the old dock, we’ll reconnoiter. If all is sound, by eight bells, we’ll swim to the _Walrus_ and retake her.”

Billy was frowning by the time James had finished. “They’ll see us. That water is as flat as can be out there.”

“Yes, the water is calm,” James agreed with a fierce grin, “but what will be happening at eight in the morning, Billy?”

Billy’s frown smoothed out. “The sunrise?”

“Exactly. At this longitude, the sun is almost due east. If we keep to the reflection, they won’t see us until it is far too late.” He buckled his belt and went to his weapons chest. “We’ll bring rope and hooks and tie onto anything we can find—the gun ports, the cleats. Boyle? Go rouse the men.”

Boyle hurried off but Billy stayed where he was. “What about Mr. Silver?”

Trying to decide between his dagger and dirk he asked absently, “What about him?”

“I’ve been thinking: Vincent and him were suddenly thick as thieves before we got to Charles Town. I bet you anything that he’s the one that told that other crew about the gold, not Vincent.”

He looked up, slipping the dirk into his belt. It made sense—behind every wrong thing had been Silver, why not this? “It doesn’t change what we have to do and if we leave him here, he might try to warn Rackham.”

“Not if we tie him to the mast.”

“We can’t; we want the men’s wholehearted support.” He sheathed the dagger. “Once we’ve got the gold, then we might take a chance at exposing Silver’s treachery.”

Billy stuck his thumb into his belt. “He can’t swim.”

“I’ve seen many one-legged men do well in the water. We’ll put it to him—swim with us or stay in the longboat.”

Billy didn’t say anything—he just stared at James with that bulldog expression.

“Hopefully he’ll choose the swim—there’s no telling what he’ll get up to out there all by himself.” He looked up and added, mostly to ease Billy’s mind, “This is really the only way. The minute he steps out of line, we’ll have him.”

“I guess that’s all right,” Billy agreed grudgingly.

“Then help Boyle get the men up; we need to hurry. I want the boats on the water in ten minutes, which means the men need to be on the deck in two.”

***

Impatiently, he paced while the men gathered round. Some were alert and ready, most were still gathering their weapons and gear.

He waited until they had settled down, then spoke: “I’ve just been informed that we’ve a surprise waiting for us in the harbor. It seems our ship, our lovely _Walrus,_ has been patched up and is at this moment, anchored in the channel next to the _Colonial Dawn_.”

That got the men’s attention and they began to mutter with excitement; he gestured for quiet. “My guess is that someone took the _Colonial Dawn_ to retrieve our gold and ended up with our ship, as well. My guess is that those two ships are laden with our prize. If that is so, we now have two objectives—our gold and our ship!”

He let the men cheer for a moment, then signaled again for quiet.

“As we don’t know the condition of either ship nor how many men are on board, we’re going to approach from the east using the reflected sun as a shield and the tail-ends from the buntlines and ratlines as our ladders. You’ve seen this done this before, you know what to do.”

The men nodded.

“Our goal while on the _Walrus_ is to remain concealed until the last possible moment. Then we take her.”

He looked all about, his voice dropping, “Remember, some of the crew might be former brothers but we can’t let that interfere with our mission.” He glanced at Billy; Billy said nothing. “If they give us a fight, we must put them down but _only_ if they fight. Keep as many alive as possible.”

“When we’ve secured the _Walrus_ , we’ll advance on the _Colonial Dawn_ and take her, too _._ ” He bent his lips in a grin. “Now, shoes and coats off—let’s go get our ship and our gold.”

***

His plan went perfectly. Even with the strong tides, they glided across the channel with ease and no sound of alarm. The only tricky part was taking cover behind the old dock. It was Spanish-built, created, he’d always assumed, in a pointless attempt to make use of the island. The Spaniards had even gone so far as to build a stone quay before giving up. With disuse, the dock was falling into the channel.

Taking the lead, Billy’s crew came in too fast and hit larboard side. The dock shuttered and wobbled but held. Within minutes, all the boats were huddled around it.

James stepped from boat to boat to boat to get to the dock. Crouching, he got out his glass and aimed it at the nearest ship. Though it wasn’t marked, he knew it was the _Intrepid_ simply by the poor upkeep of the shrouds and sails. To the west were the _Black Hind_ and the _Colonial Dawn_ and yes, between the two was a very familiar ship.

“It’s the _Walrus,_ all right,” he whispered as loud as he dared. “She’s low in the water.”

The men knew what that meant and some murmured with excitement. Silver shut them up with an angry gesture and a hushed, _“If you don’t mind?”_

“Captain?” Billy muttered.

James looked down. Billy was peering through his own glass. “What is it?”

“Take a look at the _Colonial Dawn_ —the water’s almost up to her bowsprit. See?”

He looked again and sure enough, the _Colonial Dawn_ was equally low in the water. Satisfied that his assumptions were right, he climbed back down and landed in Billy’s boat with a soft thud. “We now have two objectives but it would be a mistake to try for them both. We know the _Walrus_ best, we know the hull’s footholds and faults. And, she’s furthest north; she’ll be easiest to take.”

“What about the _Intrepid?”_ Billy asked. “We take her and fire on the other two.”

“If I know Naft, the _Intrepid’s_ cannons haven’t been scrubbed out in the last two years; plus, we don’t want to risk sinking either of the ships, not with the weight they’re carrying. Besides,” he turned to where the sun was on the rise. “Naft never has a lookout; we’ll us the _Intrepid_ for cover and make for the _Walrus._ Agreed?”

The men all nodded eagerly.

He tucked the glass into his belt. “Mr. Silver? Are you coming with us or staying here?”

Silver raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take my chances out here, thank you very much.”

“What a surprise,” James murmured as he slipped into the warm water.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

He woke to the sound of singing.

A man was outside near the window and it took him a moment to recognize the words: _He turned his face unto the wall, and death was with him dealing. Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, and be kind to Barbara Allen…_

It had been ages since he’d heard that simple tune. Miranda had loved it and would hum as she reviewed the household accounts. No one in the Wadmalaw house sang, not even the servants; the house was singularly quiet, now that he thought on it.

He rose and went to the window.

Given the time and state by which he’d arrived, he hadn’t noticed anything much about the house beyond it had a roof, walls and a porch.

But now he was surprised to find himself facing a large garden laid out in neat, orderly lines. Contrary to what he’d told Jonathan, he wasn’t much of a gardener and only recognized the lettuces, corn and grapevines. In the middle of the garden stood Scott. He was staring at something on the horizon, absently running the silk from a stalk of corn through his fingers. At his feet was a basket filled with greens.

“Good morning,” Thomas called out softly, not wanting to startle Scott.

Scott looked around with a faint smile. “And good morning to you, too. How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you,” he answered, only then realizing that yes, he’d slept soundly. “What is that you’re doing? Is there something wrong with the corn?”

Scott let the stalk go and then stooped to pick up the basket. “No, everything is fine. But then,” he smiled, a true smile. “I’m not much of a farmer. The corn could be on the brink of death and I’d be the last to know.”

Scott’s smile softened his face and Thomas found himself smiling as well. “I well know the feeling.” He looked around. “This is a large farm—does the owner have help?”

“Yes, but they’ve disappeared.”

“Ah.” He nodded to the basket. “Is that breakfast?”

“It is. And dinner and supper, too.”

“I can’t promise that I’m any good in the kitchen, but I’d like to help with whatever it is you’re going to make.”

Scott’s expression faded to one of opaque watchfulness as it had the day before but all he said was a mild, “If you wish.”

Thomas nodded and turned to get dressed.

He was sitting on the bed, buckling his new shoes when he realized that although his new clothing was rough, it all fit. In the past, his tailor had always made comments as to the unusual length of his arms and legs, saying that few in London had his height. Whoever had chosen these clothes for him had  either a good eye or was very good at guessing.

He was still puzzling it over when he got to the kitchen. Scott was at the table, cutting something up. When he saw Thomas, he nodded, then returned to his chopping.

“Is Miss Ashe awake?” Thomas asked quietly in case the answer was ‘no.’ It was an onion that Scott was chopping into thin slices; the scent of it woke Thomas’s stomach and of a sudden he was hungry.

“I looked in on her a minute ago—she’s deep asleep.”

“She’s had a hard time of it. First the pirates, then the return home, then her father dying.”

Scott nodded shortly. “Yes.”

He picked up a sheaf of lettuce and spread its leaves. “She should never have come here.”

He had spoken mostly to himself but Scott looked up and said, “And whom do you blame for that?”

Startled, he said, “I beg your pardon?”

“If Miss Ashe is in danger, it was her guardian’s position to ensure her safety.”

He didn’t know what to say. He could insist he wasn’t Abigail’s guardian. He could argue that Abigail was willful, he could even say it wasn’t Scott’s place to criticize or point fingers. But, none of those things were helpful so he said simply, “You’re right.”

Scott looked up, hands still.

He gently put the leaf of lettuce back on the table. “I had the opportunity to stop Miss Ashe back in Charles Town and I didn’t take it. Even with the city in ruins, I could have found some way to keep her safe from herself, to keep her from getting on that ship.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because—” He shook his head, unsure of his reasons. Had it truly been that he’d been worried that Abigail would get into trouble?

That had surely been part of it, but with the clarity of distance, he now wondered if sympathy for her plight had driven much of his decisions. He knew the frustration of forced inaction; perhaps his admiration for her willingness to risk her own life for another’s had been the motivating factor as it had been very brave of her. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I truly don’t.”

Scott was still watching him, but his gaze had turned inward once more. “Perhaps it is because we are unable to see clearly, when it comes to those we care about. Especially when those we care about are headstrong girls.”

He smiled. “I take it you know a headstrong girl.”

Scott shook his head mournfully but there was a hint of a smile behind the sadness. “I do and there is no changing her, once she sets her mind to something.”

He sat down at the table and held out his hands. “Please—let me help you, and you can tell me of her.”

***

They took breakfast out the porch. It was a plain meal of eggs and  greens on toast. It was an interesting combination and flavor and he tucked the idea away for later. When he returned to Wadmalaw, perhaps he’d show Mrs. Cameron a thing or two.

“What is so humorous?” Scott asked.

“I was just thinking how surprised my housekeeper will be when I give her this recipe.”

“Will she be insulted, this housekeeper? That you bring her new ways to cook?”

“Maybe. Probably. She is very proper, very concerned with—” He stopped, remembering his revelation that Mrs. Cameron wasn’t as standoffish as he’d once thought. “But enough of that—I won’t insult her by saying more. Besides, she’s not _my_ housekeeper.”

“How so?”

“She’s not mine because the house is not mine.” He picked up his coffee and sipped it. It was very strong and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “I’m living at a friend’s estate, you see.”

“In Charles Town?”

He shook his head. “No, but nearby. On an island.”

Scott looked around. “Like this one.”

He smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that but yes, from one island to another. Of course, I was brought up on an island.”

“England.”

“Yes, England.”

“Do you miss it?”

He glanced up. “England? At times, I do; at times, I don’t.”

Scott nodded. “You miss the people more than the land.”

He smiled slowly. “Aptly put.” They were quiet a moment and then he said, “And you? Where are you from?”

Scott stared at Thomas long enough for Thomas to fear he’d given offence, and then began to speak, “I do not know. I was brought with my mother to the island of Tobago when I was a babe. At thirteen, I was taken from Tobago by the Spanish and sold to Mr. Guthrie.” He gestured, taking in the island. “I have lived here ever since.”

Though Scott was clearly intelligent, even erudite, it was a common story—there was no reason to feel such sadness and anger. “And would you go back to Tobago if you could?”

Scott shook his head. “I thought, when I was a boy, that I would find some way to return, but this is my home. I will stay here.”

“With your headstrong girl,” Thomas said softly.

“With my headstrong girl,” Scott agreed with a smile.

Scott’s words suddenly reminded him of Miranda and he drew a deep breath, needing a change of subject. “You said Miss Guthrie wasn’t born on this island. What made her stay?”

“She runs a business here. A powerful business.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“What type of business?”

Scott’s gaze faltered and he glanced off to the side before saying, “She facilitates the transfer of goods from the seller to the buyer.”

“Meaning she deals in stolen property. She’s a fence.”

Scott frowned. “It is much more than that. _She_ is much more than that. Yes, she continues her father’s business but she realizes that to persevere, one must adapt. She has a vision for Nassau, one that will bring peace and prosperity. That vision has driven her to do extraordinary things.”

“Truly?” he said again, his interest engaged. “Tell me of this plan. I’ve long held the belief that peace in Nassau is the key to peace in this entire region.”

Scott gave him a dark look, then said, “Her plan has the very real possibility of getting her killed. Even now, she might be in terrible danger.”

“Because she’s fighting the cultural climate that is backed by corruption and corrupted men?” He stood up and began pacing. “Such a venture will always be met with skepticism and mistrust and therefore, danger. But, if she has something that will actually _work…”_ He took a chair again, this time sitting next to Scott. “I would like above all things to meet with her and hear her ideas.”

Scott was frowning now, watching Thomas with suspicion and doubt. “Who _are_ you?”

It wasn’t what he was expecting, the question, and he straightened up, answering cautiously, “No one in particular.”

“That is a lie. A ‘no one’ would not speak as you do.”

“And yet, it’s true.”

“Captain Flint has such thoughts about Nassau, such ideas which means you are working with him. Are you a spy for him?”

He laughed out loud. “You cannot be serious? I’ve only just arrived besides which I don’t know Captain Flint. He and I have never met.”

“But—”

“And if we had, I assure you, the captain would be in England, answering for his crimes. As would you,” he added with reckless heat, “if you’ve committed similar crimes.”

Scott said nothing but continued to stare with that same confused expression.

“It is quite—” Thomas began only to be interrupted by a voice from the house.

“There you are.”

He startled, as did Scott. They turned as one to find Abigail standing in the doorway, fastening her overskirt. She wasn’t out of breath, but it appeared as if she’d been hurrying. “Is there breakfast? I’m famished.” When neither of them spoke, she asked, “Is everything all right?”

Thomas gestured. “Mr. Scott was under the impression that Captain Flint and I know each other. I was just disabusing him of that notion.”

“I see,” Abigail said slowly. “And how did you come to that conclusion, Mr. Scott?”

Scott hesitated, then said, “The gentleman spoke of Nassau and her future. The words reminded me of the many conversations between Captain Flint and Miss Guthrie.”

Abigail straightened her skirt. “I can assure you, Mr. Scott, Mr. Martin has no familiarity with Captain Flint. He’s never even been to this part of the world.”

Thomas waited for an apology but only received a small nod as Scott got to his feet.

“I told Captain Flint I would review the household supplies.” Scott picked up his plate. “I will go do that now.”

When he was out of earshot, Thomas murmured, “What a curious man. He didn’t believe me.”

“I think he’s just being cautious,” Abigail said, picking up Thomas’s plate. “He is part of Flint’s crew, after all. I’m going to get my breakfast.”

She left, leaving Thomas to wonder what had just happened.

***

After Abigail had eaten, Thomas suggested a walk. Other than pointing out a specific path that would help them avoid a dangerous seep, Scott did or said nothing to detain them.

They set out, neither speaking much while they followed a footpath that led southeast until they came to a promontory that looked out over the ocean. He helped Abigail up the last leg and they stood there, gazing all about. Directly in front was a great, curving bay. To the west were broad, green fields that had to be some sort of plantation. To the east there was nothing but low vegetation that eventually gave way to sand and water.

“It’s beautiful,” Abigail said, “but so very lonely. Why would anyone choose to live here?”

“Freedom, I suppose,” Thomas said absently. “The chance to live one’s own life as one sees fit. I would imagine that would be a powerful incentive to many people.”

“Are you one of those people?”

“How do you mean?”

“Why do you stay on that island, all alone? Was it my father’s wish or your own?”

He smiled half-heartedly. “You read the letters, you know my story.”

When she didn’t answer, he added, “You must know that much of what has happened to me has been against my wishes. I stay because I must if for no other reason than I have no other place to go.”

She said nothing for the longest time, and then she murmured, “About the prison—I am sorry for what happened to you. I don’t think I’ve ever said that.”

“You shouldn’t have to. You’re not responsible for your father’s actions.”

“Yes, but—”

He took her by the shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. “I thought we’d agreed that you are going to leave the tilting at windmills for someone more skilled.”

“I heard you,” she said quickly.

“What do you mean?”

“This morning, I heard you say to Mr. Scott that Nassau is the key to peace in this region.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think that? What is your connection to this place?”

He let her go. “Believe me or don’t believe me but I’ve never been here before.” She just stared at him and he added, “I was once working towards a resolution that would establish order in Nassau. It was that resolution that was my downfall.” He reached out and touched the branch of a low-growing pine. He broke off a small portion of it. “Odd to think of it, but if all had gone to plan, I’d now be the governor of this island.”

If all had gone to plan.

If all had gone to plan, the people would be prosperous and the Crown would have established a foothold against Spain and France in this part of the world.

It had all been so clear back then—the pardoned pirates would give up sword for spades, commerce would flourish, and he and Miranda would build a modest house on a modest portion of property that would include a house for James. When James had leave from his duties, he’d come home to Nassau and they would spend as much time together as possible, all by themselves in their own house…

What a fantasy it had all turned out to be.

“What was so horrible about it? _Why_ did my father oppose it so?”

He held the pine leaf to his face and inhaled deeply. The scent cleared his mind somewhat and he said plainly, “It’s gone and past, my dear. We now must live in the world as it is.” He turned to go but she grabbed his sleeve.

“No! I am not a child anymore!”

“I know you are not.”

“Then you must know that I’ve a right to this—I need to know what my father was!”

He gave it a moment, then nodded. “You are correct. You are old enough and if it helps understand your father’s motivations, you should know.” He tossed the branch down and turned to her. “Put simply, I wanted to clear out the old way of thinking, remove the judgments of right and wrong and pardon the pirates.”

She frowned. “You wanted to pardon them?”

“Yes.”

“You wanted to pardon the pirates? Against my father’s wishes?”

“Actually, your father was with us in the end. It was my father that was the crux of the discord.”

“But—” She hesitated, then said, “Who is ‘us’?”

He glanced out over the bay, squinting against the bright sun. “You said you read the letters.”

“Yes, but—” She gasped and put a hand to her throat. “Lieutenant McGraw? He was part of this?”

He nodded. “A most integral part. He was my liaison to the Admiralty. Without James, I would never have gotten as far as I did.”

She was looking at him with a kind of horror. “I didn’t know,” she finally said. “I thought it was just the two of them. I didn’t know—”

He’d been absently watching the swells when he turned his gaze to the east. He sharpened his gaze, needing a moment to realize what he was seeing. “Miss Ashe?”

“If that is true, then you must—”

“Abigail?” He took her arm and pointed. “Look.”

She looked, following his direction. “Is that a ship?”

“No…” He shaded his eyes, trying to see. “I believe it is two ships.”

“Who are they? Merchants?”

“I am not sure; they’re quite large. I wish I had Captain Hill’s glass.”

“We should return to the house.”

“Wait a moment,” he murmured. “Are they coming around? I think they are.”

He watched with bated breath because it was a magnificent sight, the two ships sailing side by side, turning as one. “They are; they’re heading this way.”

“They are,” Abigail agreed quietly. “And they’re all flying the Union Jack.”

His heart jerked. The Royal Navy was coming here, to New Providence Island. There could be many reasons for such a visit, but only one made sense. He turned to Abigail, his attention once more caught, this time by activity on the bay below. “Abigail? Look to the beach—what do you see?”

She stepped forward to get a better view and when she spoke, her voice was thin, “I see men. There are men on horses and they are signaling to the ships.”

“You are right. We must return to the house and we must go now.”

***

They arrived at the house, both breathless from the quick march that had turned into a scurry. At one point, Abigail’s skirt had caught on a bramble and they’d had to tear the fabric to free her.

“Mr. Scott?” Thomas called out before they had reached the stable. “Mr. Scott!”

The second call brought Scott running from around the side of the house. He’d been in the garden and was wearing a shade hat and carrying a hoe. “What is it?”

“What might it mean,” Thomas asked urgently, “that the Admiralty would send two large ships to Nassau?”

Scott frowned in confusion. “What? Where did you see this?”

Thomas pointed. “Back there, on the other side of the island. Not only that, there was a group of men on the beach, signaling to them.”

Scott took off his hat. “The leeward coast has a difficult approach, but there is one bay that can be reached by longboats. How far out were they?”

“Two or three miles at the most.”

“The wind was at their backs,” Abigail added quietly.

_Good girl,_ Thomas wanted to say because she was quick on her feet; he hadn’t noticed anything about the sails.

“Come,” Scott said, propping the hoe against the porch wall and turning to the house. “You must prepare. If they are as close as you say, the scouts will be here before sunset.”

“To what purpose?” Thomas asked, hurrying after. He’d had time to think and was now unsure why he’d felt such dread. “The British Navy is our friend, yes?”

Scott stopped. “For you they might be; for everyone I love, they mean imprisonment, possibly death by hanging. Beyond that, there is no end to the chaos they will create if they take Nassau unawares.”

“So you mean to ride into town and warn them?”

“I must.”

“Then we shall go with you.”

Scott frowned. “If the British are truly coming to retake this island, the last place you want to be is in that nest of vipers.”

Thomas rubbed his forehead, rubbing away the mild ache. Now was not the time for one of his headaches. “I suppose you’re right. In any case, they might go a different direction altogether.”

Scott pointed to the road just beyond the garden. “That road is the only road to Nassau. If the Navy is landing where you say, that means that this house is in the direct path of those men.”

Thomas nodded, then gestured towards the house. “Come, Abigail,” he said quietly. “You and I will see what defenses we can formulate. After that, we wait.”

***

Unlike many events of the past few years, Thomas would remember the details of that afternoon long after the day was over.

There wasn’t much to prepare; they managed to find three weapons: two daggers and an old cutlass. Thomas unsheathed the latter and tested the blade. It was dull but it would do in a pinch.

He was searching the rooms, looking for anything they might have missed when he happened upon a cloth-covered object hidden behind the bookcase in his borrowed bedroom.

He pulled it free and drew the cloth off.

It was a painting, small in size, crude in execution. There was mold in the corners and the frame was badly scratched. He carried it to the chair by the window and fell more than sat.

Early afternoon was almost upon them and the room was in shadow, but he could still see the figures clearly.

It had never been his favorite, this painting. Miranda had found the artist, bringing him to the house one day to meet Thomas. Thomas had argued for William Aikman; no one in London had William’s style or charm. He’d finally given in when Miranda had argued that her young man hadn’t the advantages of birth or upbringing but he had a good spirit and their patronage would help launch his career.

He touched Miranda’s painted face; the likeness wasn’t exact but close enough and the grief he’d put away returned with a vengeance.

He was still sitting there when movement at the door made him look up. Abigail was standing in the threshold. “This was her house, wasn’t it?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “She lived here all this time?” His eyes were stinging. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure how,” Abigail said, taking a step into the room. “I only met her when I was rescued from Captain Vane. And since I didn’t know…”

She trailed off and Thomas nodded. “I understand. You didn’t want to upset me.”

His words weren’t kind but all Abigail said was, “Yes.”

He examined the room, seeing it in a new light. “I should have known. She always loved the scent of lavender in the linens.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to understand.” He touched the corner of the frame. “Did she live here with him?”

“With Captain Flint?”

“Yes.”

Abigail hesitated, then said, “I believe so.”

He nodded and refused to look at the bed, at what it now meant.

“Will you be all right?” she asked again and this time he looked up and smiled.

“Yes,” he lied. “Though I would like some time alone.”

She nodded slowly. “Before he left, Mr. Scott made us a simple meal. We will eat as soon as you are ready.”

“Thank you.”

After she had gone, he rose and leaned the painting on the desk.

He imagined it, Miranda living in this place, so unlike everything she’d known. The house and all its little grace notes were a testament to her determination but how had she managed? Had she friends to pass the time? This place was so lonely, so isolated. How had she survived, going from that life to this?

Of course, she hadn’t been alone, had she? She’d had the pirate Flint to keep her company. It hurt, the realization and he was scrabbling for the vial of laudanum before he knew it.

He stared at, his quick release from pain. There would be no harm, taking just a bit. It would help him cope, keep him steady for what was to come.

He was still staring at the vial when he heard a rhythmic pounding coming from outside followed by rapid set of footsteps from inside. He tucked the vial into his waistcoat and got up just as Abigail ran into the room, her face white, her eyes wide.

“They’re here,” she said. “The scouts are here.”

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

It was taking too much time. They still had half the length to go and the sun was rising quickly. He filled his lungs and dove again, picking up speed in the hopes the men would do the same.

When he rose for another sip of air, he found his effort had not been in vain—he was less than ten feet away from the _Walrus_ and still in the line of reflection. He signaled to Billy and then went under once more.

The water in the channel was always clear and even in the gloom he was able to see the _Walrus’s_ hull as he swam close. She had indeed been repaired, a slip-shod patch job that would have to be remedied as soon as he had time. He patted her hull, then surfaced for the final time. He looked about and inched towards a spot that would give him cover.

One by one the men joined him. He signaled to Billy to take the larboard side. Billy jerked his head to Hansford and Boyle and they began to make their way towards the bow.

He took another deep breath, poised to begin his climb, when a shadow on the water made him freeze. He gestured for the men to still and then hugged the hull. Like barnacles they clung while a man climbed the gunwale and pissed over the edge. There was a moment of anxiety while he waited for discovery, and then the shadow disappeared.

Not wanting for fear to take hold of the men, he grabbed the swinging end of a rope and began his climb. After a few seconds, he heard the faint sounds of the men following.

The hull of the _Walrus_ wasn’t as amiable as the Man o’ War and he had to work for it, each step a struggle. The wound on his shoulder and the minor cuts on his palms didn’t help but he finally made it to the ledge that ran just under the first row of gun ports. He uncoiled one of the lengths of rope around his waist and tied off on a metal brace, then dropped the rope. Without looking to see if anyone caught it, he edged to the next port and did the same.

It took three minutes for the crew to get into position below the gunwale. Young Mr. Lewis joined James, his expression blank with panic. James winked. Lewis gulped but gave James a shaky smile.

He waited until all eyes were on him, then nodded.

Like seals, they slipped over the gunwale and onto the weather deck.

He unsheathed his dagger, a quick glance taking in the watch on the fo’c’s’le and a second on the quarterdeck. They were both half asleep, both facing Nassau. With a nod, James went for the one on the quarterdeck while Billy went for the other.

His man went down without a fight. With Lewis’s help, James bound and gagged the man, then dragged him to the bulwark.

He took the man’s flintlock and rifle, then straightened up and looked again. Billy had his man down and the rest of the crew was aboard. He signaled and the men scurried to find the rest of their prey.

“Captain,” DeGroot whispered at James’s side, nodding to the cabin. “Someone is in there.”

He cocked his head, hearing nothing but wind and the waves slapping against the hull. He signaled for DeGroot to approach from larboard, while he took starboard. At his nod, DeGroot opened the door; they peered in.

“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered as DeGroot snorted because it was almost comical after all they’d been through.

The couple on the window seat didn’t notice them, even when James got within stabbing distance. They were going at, the girl’s eyes closed with pleasure. James rolled his, and it was then that the girl opened hers. She made to scream but James was on her in a flash, covering her mouth. At his side, DeGroot took hold of the man’s shirt and breeches and hauled him off.

“I’m not going to kill you,” James growled, “unless you make a sound.” It was one of Max’s girls. “Do you understand?”

She nodded.

Looking around, he spied a sash from the girl’s dress. He traded hand for sash, stuffing the fabric loosely in her mouth, quickly binding it in place. He pulled her dress down. “You can breathe, yes?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to tie you to the window casement. I expect to find you here when I return.”

She nodded again, this time with complete sincerity. He tied her up with the last of his ropes, then got off her to help DeGroot.

DeGroot had taken a more expedient route and had simply hit the man in the temple; the man was out, blood seeping from the wound.

“It’s Jamie Booth,” DeGroot whispered as he tied the man up.

James knelt and pulled the man’s head so he could see his face. “From the _Colonial Dawn?”_

“Aye.” DeGroot pulled on the rope, then knotted it one more time. “Is he dead?”

“Doesn’t seem to be but he’s going to have a hell of a headache.” He let Booth’s head drop and got to his feet. “I’m going below.” He left, stooping to pick up Booth’s backsword as he went.

***

He took the stairs slowly, backsword at the ready, bare feet making no noise on the rough wood. There were no sounds from below and he met no one on the way down and his heart—already pounding from the swim, the climb and the fight—began to race.

The hold still contained some of the goods put in from their last voyage. The barrels of rum and salted pork had tipped and hadn’t been righted. To the side lay a barrel of beef, its cover gone; the meat was spilling out, already ripe. In a few days, the stench would be unbearable.

So, rum, salted pork and beef but no gold and no crew—what the hell was going on?

He was rounding a small stack of flour bags when he heard what sounded like a cough. He froze. And then shook his head at his own obtuseness.

When he became captain of the _Walrus,_ he’d made several improvements. He’d had the ladders refitted to a better angle for hurrying up and down, he’d replaced the rudder with a build of his own design to give them more maneuverability and control, and, because he knew no matter how skilled he was, the chance of being boarded was great, he’d had a secret hold built below the real one.

Accessible by hatch with only himself and Mr. Gates holding the keys, he’d not had much use for it, times being what they were, but if someone had found it…

He peered around the barrels, knowing what he’d see.

Finally, here was at least part of Rackham’s crew. Some were on the deck, unconscious, the rest were bound and gagged, sitting against the hull in a row.

Joji, Aubin, Young and Morris were standing guard. When they saw him, they all grinned and pointed as one to the hatch. The cover had been hacked to bits and someone was down there with a lantern—the light from the opening cast dancing shadows above.

Heart suddenly slow and cool, he gave Joji the backsword and climbed down.

Chapman, Pearce and Niang were standing in the middle of what looked like a small ocean of coins. Chapman was holding the lantern and turning in a slow circle, the light making the gold move like waves.

“What do you think?” Pearce asked in a hushed voice.

“I—” He shook his head helplessly. It seemed a lifetime since he’d first heard the tale of the _Urca_ , a lifetime since they had taken Parrish’s ship, since he’d found the ledger. Convinced though he’d been, the gold had been his grail, forever desired, forever out of reach. “I don’t know what to think.”

“I do,” Chapman said. “I think I’m going to go get pissed.”

He grinned and bent down to open a crate. “I think I’ll join you.” The crate wasn’t filled with coins but gold bars. He picked it up, marveling at the weight. 

“Captain?”

“Down here.” He turned as DeGroot climbed down. “Well?” he asked, no small amount of satisfaction in his voice. If it had felt a lifetime since he’d been on this quest, it felt twice that since DeGroot had looked at him with anything but suspicion.

Wide-eyed, DeGroot shook his head. “By all—” DeGroot actually gulped. “Fuck me, but you were right. All this time, you were right.”

“I was, but it’s not over yet.”

DeGroot nodded, saying absently, “That’s what I came to tell you—Billy took the initiative and twenty men. They boarded the _Colonial Dawn_ and overwhelmed the crew.” He finally stopped staring at the gold.

“And the rest?”

“There were only five and they were in their hammocks. We tied them up.” DeGroot picked up a coin and held it up to the light. “What’s next?”

He dropped the bar and closed the crate. “Rackham or whoever brought those ships within sight of Nassau are fools. We have to get them to a safe place so we can count and divide it. To do that, we’ll need water and food for at least a week.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to transfer it to the Man o’ War?” DeGroot said. “It has more guns, more everything.”

He shook his head. “We don’t have the time. At any minute, Rackham, or more likely, Max, is going to realize what he’s done and bring a hundred men out here to guard these ships. We need to be away before that.”

“Where, then?”

The decks on the _Walrus_ were thick; there was no chance that Rackham’s conspirators could hear them. Even so, he waved the men closer and murmured, “Anywhere even close to Nassau or Harbor Island won’t do. It needs to be someplace small and defensible.”

“What about Cat Island?” Chapman said. “It’s got fresh water.”

“No, it’s is too open. But,” James added, stroking his beard, “there’s an island nearby with deep waters and deep coves. We can tuck into one of the bays and begin our count.”

“Should I signal to Billy?” DeGroot asked.

He nodded. “Tell him we’ll be collecting supplies from the Man o’ War. From now on, neither of these ships sails alone.”

“What about Rackham’s men?”

“When we get out in open water, we’ll give them a choice between us and the sea.”

“Rackham won’t like that.”

“Then he shouldn’t have—”

A sharp whistle interrupted him; it was followed by three short pipes. He looked at DeGroot and DeGroot looked at him.

“Enemy approaching! Everyone out of here!” he ordered as he scrambled up the ladder and back to the hold. “Make sure that lantern is out! Joji? I want you up top. Pearce and Niang, those men don’t move, understand?”

They all nodded and he ran for the stern followed by the rest. When they got on deck, he found the rest of his crew at the starboard side bulwark, weapons ready.

Across the short expanse of water, Billy was on the _Colonial Dawn’s_ quarterdeck, spyglass trained on three longboats making for the _Walrus._ James got out his glass and did the same.

It was indeed Rackham, accompanied by five men and two women. The other boats held a total of four men each. “What the hell is he thinking? He’ll never take either ship with so few men.” He recognized one of the women—at the bow, hands clenched on the gunwale, was Max.

“Maybe he’s playing some ruse?” DeGroot murmured.

“Maybe he wants to chat,” came a voice at their backs.

DeGroot swore. James jumped but didn’t turn around. “So glad you could join us, Mr. Silver.”

“Like I could stay away while you have all the fun.” Silver joined him at the rail. He was soaking wet.

“Did you fall in?” he said without taking his eye off Rackham.

“You may not realize this, but it’s hard getting out of a boat to climb into another boat with only one leg.”

He hid a laugh.

“May I?” Silver held his hand out.

James shook his head but handed the glass to Silver anyway.

“Well, well,” Silver said, “Max isn’t happy.”

“No, she is not.” Even without the aid of the glass, he could see that Rackham and Max were having words. “I hope she’s not armed.”

“Are you afraid she’s going to shoot us?” DeGroot asked.

“I’m afraid she’s going to shoot _him.”_

Rackham’s boat slid up to the _Walrus,_ hitting the hull with a soft _thunk._ James leaned over the gunwale and looked down. They were still arguing and though he couldn’t hear the words, he understood the gist. “Well?” he called out. They both looked up. “Are you coming aboard, or not?”

The men in the boat stood, but James called out, “No. Just you two, Rackham—you and Max. And Jack? Leave your weapons in the boat.”

With a huff James could almost hear, Rackham began to divest himself of his arms while Max gathered her skirts.

“Mr. Pearce? Lower the ladder. Mr. DeGroot, signal to Billy. I want him to stay on the _Colonial Dawn,_ but he should know what’s going on.”

DeGroot nodded. “Captain.”

“Well,” Silver said. “If you don’t need—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” James said softly, watching as the ladder was lowered over the side. “When Max gets on board, I’m going to ask her a few questions and I want you here when I do.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary. She and I don’t do well together and—”

He turned. “You told me yourself. You said you’d sell your own grandmother for means to escape this life. I just didn’t know to what lengths you’d go to achieve that end.”

“Now,” Silver interrupted, his finger in the air. “I never said I’d sell my own grandmother. I said I was very motivated to change my situation.”

“And do you think the men will understand that difference,” he nodded to the crew, “when I tell them you betrayed them to that woman?”

“It’s not like that,” Silver began, only to be interrupted by the woman herself, now climbing awkwardly over the gunwale.

Max was spitting fire, speaking in French so fast, James could barely understand her. She was wearing a light gown, the kind women wore in the morning. She’d either just woken up or had been busy when she’d been informed of recent events.

He waited until Rackham was onboard and Max had wound down, then rounded on them both, lowering his voice to a growl, “Do you know what would happen if the people on that island knew what is in this hold? Chaos would be the least of your problems! How could you be so fucking stupid?”

Rackham opened his mouth only to be forestalled by Max as she rounded on him, “I told you! I told you we needed more men, more guns. But no, you let them come into the tavern, to my house because you wanted them happy, you wanted them—”

Rackham tried once more. “I _did!_ I made it clear—”

“ _Clear_ ,” Max snarled as if cursing. “You should have been out here protecting the gold instead of back there trying to sweet talk Anne into—”

“Speaking of which,” James interrupted, asking Rackham, “Where is your petite shadow?”

“Anne?” Rackham said with a weak sneer. “She is otherwise indisposed.”

“Never mind about her,” Max said, pushing Rackham out of the way to stand before James. “I want my treasure back!”

He laughed bitterly. “Your treasure? _Your_ treasure?” The men had started to close ranks and he waved them back. “I know you’re not so stupid as to think I’d actually submit to your demand of ownership.”

She glanced at the men but said nothing.

He nodded. “Just because one of my men makes a deal with you does not mean you’ve made a deal with me.” This time her glance went to Silver. Silver crossed his arms over his chest and shifted from foot to foot. “Why did you do something so rash knowing I would never let you get away with it?”

She shook her head and said nothing.

“Did you never think of how rich you would be once my men had that gold in their pockets?” He stepped forward and she flinched. She was terrified, he realized, terrified to be on this ship with his men, with him. He took a step back, a retreat to give her room. “Most of it would have come to you,” he added, making his voice calm and even. “Surely you realize that?”

She tightened her lips, then burst out, “Do you think me an infant? Of course I knew this! The minute they had it, it would be mine and then I—” She broke off and quickly turned her head to the side but not quick enough.

“Ah,” he said softly, recognizing her angry tears for what they were. Gates had told him of Max and Eleanor and their falling out. “This was to be a gift, was it?” he murmured, not unkindly.

“It does not matter now.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He sighed and looked around. The men were all watching with puzzled frowns. They had no idea that Max had intended to give at least part of the treasure to Eleanor Guthrie. “If it makes you feel better, this treasure will help Nassau grow strong again.”

“It does not.” She shrugged. “Make me feel better, I mean.”

“I didn’t imagine it would. And now for you.” He turned to Rackham. “Your men will go back to Nassau while you two remain my guests.”

“I cannot,” Max said, losing some of her stiffness. “I have my business to run.”

“And I have my crew to pacify,” Rackham added. “Though I’ll count myself lucky if they don’t hang me outside the tavern.”

“Your business and reputation will be fine for the time it takes to get these ships ready to sail. Once around the point, we will send you off in a longboat.”

“Where are you taking the gold?” Rackham asked.

James just looked at him.

“Because my crew and I are owed a considerable sum,” Rackham continued, “in that we retrieved the gold for you at great expense. There are death and injury payments to make, food expenses, maintenance expenses—need I go on?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I should hope so, given that—”

“Mr. Rackham?”

“ _Captain_ Rackham, if you please.”

“I’ve already said I’d think about it.”

“Yes, and what is that—”

“That means,” Max interrupted sharply, “you should be quiet now.”

James grinned. “She’s right; you should stop talking before you make things worse.” He signaled DeGroot to step to the wheel with him, then murmured, “I need an hour or so to calculate our route. In the meantime, we will move the ships out of the harbor and meet up with the Man o’ War.”

“Who’s going to captain the _Colonial Dawn?_ ”

“You will,” James said succinctly, just so he could see DeGroot’s look of surprise. “As ship’s master, you’re more than capable.”

“Very well,” DeGroot said grudgingly but James could see he was pleased.

“As to our guests, I want them kept separate,” he added. “From each other and from Mr. Silver.”

DeGroot frowned. “Why?”

“Who do you think brought Max into all this in the first place?”

DeGroot’s frown turned into a scowl. “I should have known. From the very beginning I—” He shook his head. “Never mind that now; I’ll make sure he doesn’t get a chance to talk to her.”

James glanced over his shoulder; as usual, Silver was watching him closely. “Now that we have the gold, he’s not going to want to leave it, but soon that crafty mind of his will start to work and he’ll try to think of a way to get all of it, not just a portion.”

“Over my dead body,” DeGroot growled.

James smiled. “I imagine we all feel the same.”

DeGroot turned away but James stopped him. “Before you leave, find Doctor Howell and send him to my cabin.”

***

James’s skeleton crews weighed anchor and they were out of the harbor before noon. Feeling as if he’d come home, he met with Howell and gave his orders, then sat down at his desk and planned the route.

He mapped out the passage easily enough: sail east by northeast, slip between Cat Island and Long Island and then east again to Watlings Island. There, they would anchor on the leeward side and begin their count. After they’d divided it all, they’d return to Nassau.

So, the route was easy but the implementation was another matter. As much as he wanted to, there was simply no way to take all three ships. And, time being what it was, he couldn’t move the gold from one ship to another. The longer they waited, the more chance that someone on Rackham’s crew would come looking for them.

Still, he hated the idea of giving up the Man o’ War; she had more guns, more supplies, more everything including a bigger hold. He could post a guard but if anyone were determined to have her, there was little he could do to stop them save sabotaging the ship itself.

He was still pondering his options when a knock came at the door. “Yes?”

Billy came in. “We just finished hauling up the last longboat.”

“Very good.”

“And we’ve just spotted the Man o’ War.”

“How’s the crew?”

Billy grinned. “I signaled them; they’re dancing on the deck.”

He smiled briefly. “When we get within reach, anchor next to her.”

“We’re transferring the gold?”

He nodded, having changed his mind that second. “She’s too valuable to chance losing. We’ll move the gold from the _Colonial Dawn,_ then leave her anchored and empty.”

“Captain Rackham will be pleased to hear that.”

He refrained from saying that he could give a fuck what pleased Jack Rackham, saying instead, “We need to be quick about it, Billy. I want to be underway within two hours.”

Billy nodded, then said, “About the men of the _Colonial Dawn_ …”

He trailed off and James smirked. “Don’t tell me—they’ve had a change of heart and want to join our crew?”

Billy nodded again.

James relaxed back in his chair. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know; on one hand they were just doing what anyone else would do. On the other hand, they knew they were stealing a treasure already claimed by us.”

“And we in turn, were stealing from the rightful owner, although even that is subject for conjecture as we don’t know where the Spanish got the gold in the first place.”

Billy frowned. “You’re not making the choice easier.”

He smiled. “I’m not trying to. Every decision you make has results, intended or not, and you need to think a problem through from inside out, top to bottom.”

“What would you do?”

“Give them each a handful of coins and send them back to Nassau with the _Colonial Dawn_. I’m not inclined to kill anyone over this treasure, not after what has been done to us in the meantime.”

He wasn’t sure if Billy understood any of that, but he just nodded and said, “I’ll ask Mr. Lewis to count out some coins. Do you think ten each would do it?”

“Make it fifteen; we can spare that much.” Billy turned to go and James called him back. “Make sure Mr. Silver stays where you can see him.”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got my eye on him,” Billy said darkly as Howell hurried into the cabin.

Howell was dressed for his trip and was carrying his battered leather satchel that held his physics and instruments. He patted the bag. “All ready, Captain.”

He got up and closed the door. “You have your instructions and coins in case you need them; do you have any questions?”

“Not at this time, though I do wonder that we just don’t take Mr. Martin and Miss Ashe with us.”

“Why?” he asked sharply, suddenly reminded of Billy’s comment of the night before. “Is there any reason you want either on board?”

Howell raised one eyebrow. “None in the slightest. It’s just that you never not want me _off_ the ship while we’re at sea.”

He nodded, using the moment to regain his head. He sat down again. “You’re right, and I appreciate your concern but we’ll be gone four days at the most.”

“And in that time, I’m to watch your friend and ensure that his recovery is complete?”

“Yes,” he said absently stroking his beard. “Have you learned anymore of his illness?”

“Such as?”

“Why was he so affected by the laudanum? Why was he raving so?”

Howell shrugged. “Laudanum affects everyone differently. Mr. Martin said he’d only recently started taking it as he’d had a bout of pneumonia while living in London.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Howell nodded. “Apparently, he’d been visiting a relative some nine months ago and was forced to stay in less than desirable accommodations. That’s where he came down with the infection.”

He hid a frown, not wanting Howell to see the effect of his words. If Howell was relating Thomas’s words exactly, then Thomas had lied. _‘Less than desirable accommodations’_ could only mean Bethlem, though he’d been  released years ago, not months. He wondered why Abigail hadn’t mentioned anything about this new development, then realized she probably didn’t know.

He didn’t like it that Thomas had lied; he liked it less that he knew the reason why and it made him almost sick. Thomas never had been ashamed of any of part of his life before this.

“If that’s all?” Howell asked.

“It is.”

“Then, I’ll be on my way.”

“A moment?” he said, reaching for something in the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a slim, well-read volume and hesitantly handed it to Howell. “Please give this to Miss Ashe. Or Mr. Martin, if you like.”

Howell took the book. “‘ _Paradise Regain’d.’_ I’ve never read it; what is it about?”

“The devil,” James muttered, “and Jesus.”

Howell gave him a quick look, then stuffed the book in his satchel. “I’ll see that it gets to him.”

James watched Howell leave, feeling the fool. In his effort to remain obtuse he had given himself away. Well, he thought as he went to sit by the window, there was nothing for it and maybe he should be more concerned that he’d sent off a gift that announced his presence in a most blatant fashion.

Thomas had given him the book as a present on his thirty-third birthday. He had read _Paradise Lost_ but had found it rather depressing and had given up on Milton. Thomas had convinced him otherwise, quoting certain passages of _Paradise Regain’d_ to him while in bed, adding that redemption without hope was a pointless view of existence and one he wouldn’t subscribe to.

Redemption. Hope.

He’d been without both for so long. When he’d set out to become Captain Flint, he’d almost wallowed in violence, accepting the names polite society gave him with grim satisfaction. Monster, murderer, thief. Epithets that had confirmed his role and goal and he used them to great effect. Contrary to what he’d said to Miranda about his objectives, whenever he ordered the black to be raised, whenever he looked into a quarry’s eyes and saw terror, he’d always felt a fleeting but savage joy.

Which meant that Scott had been wrong and he’d been right—he’d already turned into a beast. His soul was truly lost and no amount of forgiveness would ever reclaim it; redemption and hope were not for him.

And he should have never sent Thomas a book that said otherwise.

***

He was almost done with DeGroot’s map when he heard the pipes signal: they were weighing anchor. He closed the bottle of ink and went up on deck.

Off to the west, the sun was on its way down, hovering just above Hog Island. To the north and to the east, a single bank of dark clouds was rolling in.

His timetable of an early afternoon departure had been shot to hell thanks to the condition of the crates and a westerly that sprang up out of the blue. The wind raised the waves and the waves rocked the boats, creating havoc and forcing the men to stop the portage. They had to unmoor the ships and re-position the boats closer to the shore. All told, they’d lost four hours.

“Captain?”

“Yes, Mr. Silver?” he said without turning around.

“It’s almost time for mess.”

“It is.”

“I was thinking that Max could use a break from being tied up. I mean,” Silver grinned, “Now that there’s no chance of escape.”

He nodded. “Make sure she eats away from the crew.” He was turning to call out to Billy when another pipe sounded.

“Sails!” Morris cried out. “Sails, Captain!”

He ran to the rail and squinted against the falling sun, searching for Nassau hunters after his treasure. He found nothing but water. He got out his glass but still, nothing.

“Captain!”

He looked up. Billy was in the shrouds but he wasn’t pointing west, he was pointing east.

James twisted, pushing Silver out of the way so he could lean over the rigging to see. Against the backdrop of the black clouds, two ships were coming round the point, both in perfect formation.

“Who is it?” Silver breathed. “Is it Vane?”

“No, it’s two ships of the line,” he muttered. “Both flying British colors, both heading this way.”

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

“Perhaps we could slip out the back? I believe I saw another house not far away. Maybe someone will hide us.”

Thomas listened carefully—the horses had come to a stop near the house—he could hear their faint complaints and the stamping of their hooves. “No, we stay here.”

Abigail clutched his arm. “But, what if—”

“Abigail,” he said calmly, patting her hand, “it is too late and running is only for the guilty. They will not harm us. Besides, the Royal Navy might have a perfectly benign reason for coming to Nassau.”

“Such as?”

He didn’t answer—he didn’t have time. The sounds of boot heels could now be heard on the porch and he put his arm around Abigail to give her a brief hug, unsure if it was for her comfort or his own.

Their visitors were at the door now and though it was paned, the glass was on the poor side and he could only make out vague, moving shadows.

“How many are there?” Abigail whispered.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps a half dozen?” he answered as someone knocked on the door. He gave Abigail an encouraging squeeze, then let her go. “Keep your head; they’ll be gone in a moment.”

He went to the door and opened it. On the porch stood two men. The first was older with a face like a bulldog, the second was younger with slightly more pleasing features. They both wore good traveling clothes and wigs. Behind them stood several soldiers.

“How may I be of help?” Thomas asked.

“We are looking for Mrs. Barlow,” the older gentleman said, peering over Thomas’s shoulder. “Is she available?”

“And you are?” Thomas said.

“My name is Underhill, this is Mr. Rogers.” Underhill nodded to his companion and then removed his hat. “Mrs. Barlow and I attend Pastor Lambrick’s church.”

“I am sorry to say Mrs. Barlow is no longer in residence.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “She was murdered in Carolina some days ago.”

It was news to both men. They glanced at each other and then Underhill said, “I am truly saddened to hear that. I wanted to give her my regards and was hoping she would allow us fresh water.”

“You are welcome to it.” He’d gotten a better look at the soldiers in the yard; there weren’t a half a dozen—there were at least thirty. “The bucket is sitting on the edge of the well.”

“If we may come in?” Underhill said, taking off his hat. “The day is warm and I would be grateful for a rest.”

He gripped the doorknob. There was no argument he could give for keeping them on the porch and the longer he hesitated, the worse it would seem. With no other option, he smiled and gestured for them to enter. Then, as his uninvited guests came in, filling the room with a sea of blue, he backed up and returned to Abigail’s side.

The first four were common soldiers armed with muskets and swords. The fourth was a lieutenant by his rank; he was thick around the middle and had thinning fair hair. He glanced at Thomas, then froze, his mouth dropping open. Before he could say anything, someone from the back of the crowd coughed pointedly. The lieutenant jumped and then nodded to the soldiers. They parted and the last visitor came forward, removing his gold-trimmed cocked hat.

It took a moment for the officer to make his way to the front and in that brief space of time Thomas went from distracted consternation to stunned disbelief. The man looked up, his face going as blank as Thomas felt his own to be, their shock a mirror of the other’s.

Sound and color faded and Thomas was left with the memory of the last time he’d seen this man…

He’d been impatient that day, so eager to discuss his new strategy with James he’d been unable to wait at home. He’d ordered the carriage and driven to Whitehall. He waited in the semi-dark, finally spying James near the statue of Drake. James was talking with Admiral Hennessey and Thomas watched them, appreciating James’s easy stance, the way he commanded attention from the passersby. Hennessey said something that made them both laugh and James saluted and strode across the broad courtyard to the flight of steps. As soon as he saw the carriage and the crest, his expression changed. He’d smiled and Thomas could still feel it, the way his heart had leapt at that smile…

“Thomas?” Abigail whispered. “Are you well?”

He took a shallow breath and closed his mind to the happy memory of that day, murmuring, “I am fine.” He straightened his back and said evenly, “Admiral Hennessey. This is a surprise.”

“Thomas Hamilton,” Hennessey finally spoke. “The surprise is mine, finding you here in this place.” His eyes darted about, taking in the house, the rough furnishings.

He hadn’t seen Hennessey in almost ten years, but it might as well have been twenty, so much had the admiral aged. His skin was the texture and color of florid leather, his eyes a watery blue. “I imagine it’s a shock finding me anywhere,” Thomas said, “given your participation in the effort to exterminate my life.”

“I think we can both agree it will benefit no one if we speak of those days.”

“Why not? I have nothing of which to be ashamed, nor do I have anything to lose that holds any meaning. It was taken from me almost a decade ago.”

“Your life means nothing?”

He smiled. “My life _is_ nothing.” He took a step forward. “Thanks to you.”

“I wasn’t the only one involved.”

“Of course you weren’t, but you were a key player. He loved you and trusted you and you betrayed him in the worst way possible.”

His barb hit home—Hennessey’s calm broke and his face grew dark.

“He was as a son to me! My goal was to salvage what was left of his soul!”

“You thought to save his soul by stripping him of rank, prospects and honor?”

“Better that than the gallows,” Hennessey returned quickly. “If it had been up to your father, _that_ would have been his fate. Never forget that.”

“I will never forget,” he said with quiet viciousness. “I will _never_ forget what you did, what my father did.”

He and Hennessey were like characters in a play and the rest, the audience; he could almost _feel_ their confusion, their questions, just as he could feel Hennessey cast about for the next line.

It was an impasse broken by Rogers. He cleared his throat and said, “Admiral, do I understand that this is Lord Thomas Hamilton, son of Lord Alfred Hamilton? The author of the Nassau document of ‘06?”

It was Thomas’s turn for confusion. He turned to Rogers with a frown. “You read my proposal?”

Rogers came forward, edging around Hennessey. “Lord Philpot gave me a copy only last year. Much of my own proposition is based on yours.”

“I am at a loss—what proposition are you speaking of?”

Underhill answered for Rogers, “Mr. Rogers is here to negotiate peace between the Crown and the pirates.”

Silence descended like a living thing, choking the room until Thomas asked, “Everything? Including pardoning the pirates?”

“Yes. This venture has no hope of success without it.”

Completely unprepared, he could only stare. “I don’t understand.” He glanced at Hennessey. “No one believed it would work. Not even—” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I, as well, am confused,” Rogers answered. “I was told you were dead. That you had died some years ago.” Rogers’s gaze flickered, taking in Hennessey and the lieutenant. “In fact, only the day before, when asking after you, the writer of the Nassau document, I was told that your death was at your own hand due to an abundance of grief.”

“Over the knowledge that my wife was having a torrid affair with my closest friend?” Thomas said dryly, speaking to Hennessey. “Yes, I’ve heard the same thing, many times. As you can see, it wasn’t true.” It was a gauntlet, thrown directly at Hennessey, but he just pressed his lips together.

“Be that as it may, I am pleased to meet you.” Rogers came forward and held out his hand. “Your plan is nowhere near as unsuitable nor as impractical as I was led to believe.”

Thomas took Rogers’s hand briefly. “And you have the approval of the King?”

“I do.”

He rubbed his forehead. It was almost too much to be believed and he murmured, as if to himself, “You’re here to broker peace.”

Hennessey had been watching the exchange with a frown and he spoke before Rogers could answer, “Which brings me to my question.”

Thomas looked up. “And that is?” Along with the headache, the damnably dizziness had returned. If only they would all just leave.

Hennessey glanced at the house again. “Why are _you_ here? I understood from Underhill that this is the sometime home of Captain Flint.”

So they had expected Flint. No wonder Hennessey had brought such a large complement of soldiers. “I cannot answer that as I am unaware of my wife’s former situation. For all I know, Flint never stepped a foot in this house.” The moment he spoke, he wished he hadn’t—he’d forgotten that Miranda had been living under an assumed name.

Hennessey took a breath then turned to Underhill. “Did you know of this?”

Mouth open in shock, Underhill shook his head but before he could answer, Hennessey turned back to Thomas and snapped, “What the hell is going on here? I was told Flint and Mrs. Barlow shared a house as well as a bed. And now I find that she was in actuality Miranda Hamilton? _”_ Hennessey’s face had turned a darker shade of red and his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. “Did you learn nothing from your imprisonment? Have you not only returned to your old ways but have added treason to your list of black sins?”

“My list of _black sins_ , as you call them,” Thomas said coldly, “are hardly that, and I paid for them dearly, in ways you can’t imagine.” And there it was, fresh in his mind, the memory of that last day with James, his father’s men holding him down, Miranda’s screams—

“What did you think?” he asked, filled with sick, sudden anger, advancing until he was within arm’s reach of Hennessey. “When James was murdered by Captain Flint, what did you think?” Abigail had followed him and had hold of his arm, trying to drag him back; he shook her off and took another step, anger cresting to rage. “Were you happy that he could no longer embarrass you by association? Were you _glad?_ ”

Hennessey frowned as if Thomas were speaking a foreign language. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about _James_ , the man who trusted you, the man who by your own words was your sometime son!”

Hennessey shook his head slowly. “McGraw isn’t dead. He may be fallen like Lucifer, but he’s not dead.”

He blinked. And then again, touching his temple as the world titled, as he struggled to make sense of Hennessey’s words. “I don’t— What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said. James McGraw is not dead.”

“Thomas,” Abigail whispered at his side. “Please—”

He shook her off again, this time more roughly. “I don’t understand,” he said again, this time completely bewildered. “Of course he’s dead. He died over eight years ago while at sea. I know this because my father and Peter—” He paused, swallowing his own words, eyes burning, throat dry. “My father and Peter,” he repeated. He was going to be ill.

He turned away and went to the window and fumbled for the latch. He pushed the window open to lean on the ledge, feeling old and hollowed out. The air should be cool but it wasn’t, it was hot and unpleasant, as if he’d just stumbled into a fire.

They’d lied to him. His father, Peter, even his mother— James was alive. This whole time, he was alive.

Someone was at his side and he didn’t have to look to know that Abigail had followed him once more. “ _‘Cut to ribbons,’_ ” he whispered brokenly. “That’s what Peter told me. He said that James had been captured by the pirate Flint while on a ship bound for Virginia and had been cut to ribbons. His body was so mutilated  that there wasn’t anything to bury and they’d tossed him to the sea. That’s what he said.”

“Thomas,” Abigail said, “please—”

“They lied to me. My father, your father.”

Abigail sighed and then said, “Yes. Yes, they did.”

“That day at the house,” he said absently, suddenly remembering, “Peter was going to tell me but he changed his mind. He was going to tell me—”

He broke off and closed his eyes tight as a new revelation swept  over him. “James Flint. James McGraw. They’re one in the same, aren’t they?” He opened his eyes and turned to her. “That is why I never met him on that ship. That is why Miranda was living here with him. McGraw is Flint, Flint is McGraw.”

She said nothing but he could see the answer in her gaze. “You knew, didn’t you?”

She swallowed, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.

“Why?” His voice sounded thin as glass and he tried again, “Why did you not tell me?”

“I tried, at first.” She glanced towards Hennessey, adding in a whisper, “But given your opinion of Captain Flint, how could I? You spoke of arresting him, of _hanging_ him. You spoke like my father.”

She’d said that before, back when they’d first met, and he remembered other conversations, other clues, all pointing to the same conclusion that he’d been too blind to see. He looked over at her. “And James? Why did he not tell me himself?”

She glanced out the window. “I do not know. I believe he was worried that the shock would make worse your illness.”

He said nothing, sure that she was holding something back, equally sure he could take no more surprises.

She touched his arm. “Are you angry with me?”

“No. You were put in an untenable position.”

“I didn’t know who to trust.”

“And James had just delivered you to your father. You felt you owed him a debt.”

She nodded fiercely. “I did owe him a debt, one yet unpaid. More importantly, I owed Lady Hamilton a debt.”

Questions born of the moment crowded his throat but Hennessey was watching and after all he’d done, he’d get no more of Thomas’s thoughts. Hoping his eyes weren’t as damp as they felt, he straightened and returned to the center of the room. “Now that you know my wife is no longer here, perhaps you’ll be on your way.”

Underhill began to move towards the door but Hennessey didn’t budge.

“Is there a problem?” Thomas asked, wanting them gone so he could sit down and think.

“When did you arrive on the island?” Hennessey asked.

“Yesterday.”

“How can I be assured of that? Is there anyone other than this child that can vouch for you?”

He frowned. “How do you mean?”

“I think it an extraordinary coincidence that you end up in the same household as Flint’s,” Hennessey said slowly, as if speaking to himself.

“Coincidence or not, it is nonetheless the truth. Miss Ashe and I are newcomers to the island.” He could only hope that Hennessey didn’t know of Abigail’s previous, forced, visit.

“I have only your word on that.”

“You will have Mr. Underhill’s, once he tells you that he and I have never met.” Thomas nodded towards Underhill. “Surely that would suffice?”

“Mr. Underhill is not known to me.” Hennessey’s gaze raked Thomas from head to foot. “You, however, I know too well.” He drew himself up. “It is my duty to detain you until I can validate the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” he asked, not quite believing what was happening.

“That you have had no dealings with Captain Flint. That you have not taken part in any illegal actions. That you are, indeed, innocent.”

“Admiral, the whole point—” Rogers began only to be interrupted as Hennessey raised his hand.

“I know the point of this foolish excursion, Mr. Rogers. I have been ordered to escort you and to keep my distance but I will not allow  someone I know to have criminal connections free rein.”

“James used to speak of you in tones of such admiration,” Thomas said slowly. “What has happened that you’ve changed so much?”

“‘What has _happened?’_ ” Hennessey repeated savagely. “What has happened is that you turned a boy I loved into something unrecognizable, something loathsome. Because of your influence, I’ve spent the last ten years seeing good men lose their livelihoods, not to mention their lives, to Captain Flint and his men.”

Hennessey put his hand on his hilt again. “These pirates come out here and live as they will, do what they will and it must be stopped, for once and for all! It will be my pleasure to start with you. You will come with me and we will let the Crown decide what to do with you.”

In the silence that followed Hennessey’s speech, Thomas could almost hear the angry echoes reflect off the walls or perhaps the reverberation was his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. “I will not argue your incorrect assessment of the situation as there is no point, but do you mean to say,” he said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel, “that you intend to abduct myself and my charge?”

“It’s hardly abduction.”

“Any time a loyal citizen is forcibly removed and transported from one location to another, it is an abduction.”

“The girl is an issue and one I intend to remedy as soon as we arrive in Charles Town. But you—you are hardly a, _‘loyal citizen.’_ You were even imprisoned for your crimes, causing your father such great shame that he disinherited you years ago.” Hennessey’s gaze sharpened. “As I’m sure you well know.”

He hadn’t but he’d be damned if he let his shock show. “The ‘ _girl’_ is Abigail Ashe, Lord Ashe’s daughter.”

“I am aware of that.”

“And still you make threats upon our lives?”

Hennessey had the gall to smile. “I’ve made no threats. I’m merely exercising my power as commander of the expedition to ensure that Mr. Rogers’s journey is not in vain.”

“This is ridiculous.” If it had felt like a play before, now it felt like a bad dream.

“Ridiculous or not, you and Miss Ashe are coming with me.”

The room had grown close; sweat broke out on his temples and he couldn’t quite breathe. If Hennessey found some way to connect him with the pirates, he wouldn’t leave that ship on his own two feet. “What do you plan on doing with us?”

“As I said, you will return to London while Miss Ashe will return to her home and her father.”

“My father is dead,” Abigail said, speaking directly to Hennessey for the first time. “There is no home to return _to.”_

Thomas took a quick breath that he hoped went unnoticed—he’d been striving to avoid any discussion of Peter’s death but it was too late.

Hennessey frowned in shock and exchanged glances with Rogers. “I’ve had no news of the Governor’s death. When did this happen?”

“A little over a week ago,” Abigail said.

“Had he been ill?”

Abigail glanced at Thomas and he wanted to urge, _‘Be careful; your answer could trip us up.’_

“As far as I am aware,” she said, “he had not suffered any illness but I wouldn’t know that as I had recently arrived from London.”

Hennessey cocked his head. “Which begs the question: if your father died a handful of days ago, why are you here on this island with this man and not at your father’s house, mourning his passing?”

Abigail opened her mouth to answer but something, some small confusion or doubt, caused her to falter. Her eyes grew wide and she glanced at Thomas again.

And it was that, that one moment that exposed the cracks of her argument and he wanted to say, _‘Oh, Abigail,’_ but of course couldn’t. And it hardly mattered—Hennessey wasn’t stupid and he latched onto the vulnerability with verve.

“I see,” Hennessey said with mean satisfaction.

“That only proves—” Thomas began, hoping to salvage the situation only to be interrupted by Hennessey.

“It proves nothing other than you are both lying. We are finished here.” Hennessey put his hat back on. “It is time to be on our way. Lieutenant Pickram? Until I speak to the Admiralty in person, Thomas Hamilton is to be treated as the criminal he most likely is. Bind him.”

“You cannot do this!” Thomas said. His heart began to pound again.

“Out here, I can do anything. Pickram?”

Thomas watched in disbelief as Pickram went to one of the soldiers and held out his hand. The soldier gave him a length of cord; Pickram turned towards Thomas, a cruel look in his eye.

Thomas backed up. “No.” The pounding had become a hammer beating a thick tempo, deafening him to everything but the need to escape and he said again, “No. You will not—”

Pickram lunged and Thomas responded instinctively, fighting like a demon as the other soldiers joined the fray and the scene dissolved into chaos. He lashed out, hitting Pickram in the jaw, jabbing a soldier with his elbow, then kicking a third in the belly. He’d almost managed his freedom when he was grabbed from behind.

Abigail shouted, someone exclaimed, and suddenly it was over, ending with Thomas face down on the wooden table, covered by Pickram and the other soldiers.

“Let me go,” he snarled, unable to see anything but blue wool, unable to hear anything but Abigail’s orders of, _“Release him! Release him this instant!”_

He bucked, relieving the weight for a moment, giving him space to breathe. He heard the sound of a scuffle and the crash of metal against glass and finally the pressure eased. He was pulled upright but not released.

He looked around, craning his neck to make sure Abigail was unharmed. She was held in check by one of the soldiers. Rogers, watching with an air of disgust, was standing next to a soldier who was pointing a musket. Underhill had retreated to the door, one hand on the knob. A window had been broken and two chairs were tipped over. Hennessey was the only one who hadn’t moved.

Pickram shoved Thomas forward. “Hold him,” he muttered as he jerked Thomas’s arms back and began to tie his wrists together.

“Is this really necessary?” Rogers asked. “If he is telling the truth and he _is_ unknown on this island, then he has nowhere to go and no one to go _to.”_

“It is necessary, if for no other reason than I deem it necessary,” Hennessey replied.

Rogers tipped his head. “I wonder what the Crown would say to that. Considering you were put at my disposal and not the other way around.”

Pickram stilled and Hennessey glared.

It was a long, tense moment and Thomas held his breath.

Finally, as if the words were being dragged out of him, Hennessey said, “What do you suggest?”

“He is a gentleman, no matter what you say. Take his parole and be done with it.”

Hennessey hesitated, clearly wishing to deny the request. But Rogers’s authority was apparently greater than Hennessey’s and after a moment, Hennessey nodded shortly.

He turned towards Thomas and said, “Do you, Thomas Hamilton, give me your word of honor that you will neither attempt escape nor join with England’s enemies?”

Wresting his arms free, Thomas glared at Pickram, then straightened to his full height. He looked down at Hennessey and said as regally as possible, “I do.”

“Do you give me your word of honor that while bound to these terms, you will obey all laws of decency and will not during your continuance attempt any communication with England’s enemies?”

_‘Obey all laws of decency.’_ Ironic, considering the many stories James had once told him of the Navy’s everlasting troubles with sodomy. “I do.” One of his wrists was still bound; he untied the rope and threw it to the floor.

Hennessey nodded to his men. “He is free; let him go.”

The men slowly backed away.

“Now,” Hennessey said, “you and Miss Ashe will accompany me to the _Royal George_ while Mr. Rogers and Lieutenant Pickram continue on their way. If you have any personal effects you wish to bring, I suggest you retrieve them now. We’ll leave in five minutes.”

Hennessey turned to the door but Abigail stopped him. “Admiral Hennessey?”

“Yes?”

“Regarding Captain Flint?” she asked. “What do you intend for him? Will he be pardoned?”

Rogers had been watching the exchange keenly and at this, he stirred. “Captain Flint,” he said, “is another story altogether. He and his men will be hunted, tried and hanged.”

Thomas’s heart fell. “You spoke of my proposal, Mr. Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know that mass accusation and execution is not part of it.”

“Captain Flint’s many actions are something that I, nor the Crown can forgive,” Rogers said, unmoved. “I will not be petitioning any kind of pardon for him.”

Thomas glanced at Abigail but there was no chance to speak as they were escorted out of the room.

In a daze, he gathered the clothing given to him and began to stow them away in the flour sack. He was folding one of the shirts when he had a small, heartbreaking epiphany: the clothes fit so well because Jameshad chosen them. James was alive and had taken the time to find something suitable for him to wear.

James was _alive_ and a pain, sharp and ugly, curled from his belly to chest and he bent over, clutching the shirt.

“Sir? Are you ill?” the soldier asked.

He gave it a moment, waiting for the pain to fade to a dull ache, then shook his head. “Perhaps it was something I ate.”

The soldier said nothing for a moment, then remarked in a rush, “The food can be murder out here in the beyond. I caught a gripe on my first crossing and I thought I was going to die, it was that bad. By the time it was finished with me, I was a full stone lighter and my clothes didn’t fit.”

His eyes were damp and he wiped them with the back of his hand, then finished folding the clothes into the sack. “Indeed?” he murmured when he felt he could trust his own voice. He turned. “And did you become accustomed to it? The food, I mean.” The solider was just out of boyhood, brown-haired, with unfortunate skin.

“No,” the soldier answered with a shrug. “But you get used to anything, don’t you?”

His smile was tinged with bitterness. “Truer words were never spoken.”

The soldier nodded, then frowned. “Is that from a poem or something?”

“Something, yes.” He tightened the sack’s drawstring. He patted his waistcoat, making sure his watch was still there. He felt a small lump and remembered. He drew the vial of laudanum out of his pocket. “What is your name?”

“Arthur Massey. Out of Bristol. My uncle don’t hold with poems.”

He stared at the small glass bottle. Odd that it hadn’t broken in the fracas. “I take it you were raised by this uncle?”

“I was.”

“Well, Arthur Massey out of Bristol,” he said as he put the vial back in his pocket and picked up his coat, “perhaps when we are on board your ship, I will recite a few poems for you.” As strange as the conversation was, it had given him time to recover. “You might change your mind.”

Massey looked doubtful. “I might.”

He pulled on his coat. “We’ll start with something easy like Donne and go from there.”

Still frowning, Massey nodded.

Thomas hesitated and looked around at the room. James was still alive. James was still alive and had slept in that bed and woken up each morning with the new sun.

“Sir? We should go,” Massey said.

He nodded and—feeling more himself than he had in a long while—he took the laudanum from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the washstand. He picked up the sack and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s be off, then.”

***

When he got outside, he shaded his eyes against the bright sun, surprised to find it still high above the horizon. So much had changed; he felt as if he’d been inside for years, not hours.

Abigail had been given a horse and she watched him, expression tight with distress. He went to her and gave her a reassuring smile. “Do not worry,” he murmured, “we will survive this.”

“After my blunder, how will you prove your innocence?” She smiled bleakly. “How will I prove mine?”

He reached up and took her hand. “You won’t need to.”

“How can that be? They are taking us back to London!”

He glanced to the side. Hennessey was some distance away, near the road with Underhill and Rogers; he was watching Thomas with doubt and suspicion.

“Because,” Thomas said, turning to look up at Abigail, “after Mr. Scott has warned the town of Nassau, he will return to the ship and then what will happen?” Her pinched expression altered. “Yes.” He squeezed her hand. “James will come for us. We just need to be ready to act when he does.”

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

He could hope a fire broke out in each of the galleys. He could hope the storm that had seemed to be heading south and was now moving north would reverse course.

He could hope the captains were fools and wouldn’t recognize what was clearly a Spanish warship anchored off the coast.

What he couldn’t hope was that a solution would come to him from simply hoping.

“How long?” DeGroot asked from his position at the taffrail.

He gauged the distance. “An hour at the most, maybe a bit more.”

“Much of the gold is still in the _Colonial Dawn’s_ hold.”

“I know.”

“The _Walrus_ and the _Colonial Dawn_ are too heavy; we’ll be no match for them if they have at us.”

“I know.”

“We’re dead in the water, aren’t we?”

He drew a deep breath, intending to snarl, when DeGroot’s words connected with a memory. “‘Dead in the water,’”he repeated softly.

“Captain?”

“Meet me in my cabin and bring Billy and Mr. Silver!”

***

The map was lying where he’d left it, on the desk held down by a bottle of ink and a compass. It had been created in 1569 by one of the best cartographers James had come across, one Diogo de Moura. Of all the maps he had access to, he’d preferred De Moura’s, not just because it was accurate but it was old and its previous owners had added notes of their own experiences in these waters.

Above the demarcation, _I. de la Providence, Nassaw Town_ , someone had carefully written in large script _I. de la Pyrata._ To the right in very small script, they’d added, _‘Agueas de la muerte,’_ and drawn a tiny skull.

He smiled and touched the words.

“Captain?”

He glanced up as DeGroot, Billy and Silver came to stand around the desk.

“This is it,” he said, pointing to the map. “This is how we’ll stop them.”

Silver leaned over. “We’ll kill them with death waters?”

“Why do we avoid the stretch of water between here and Rose Island?”

There was a slight pause and then DeGroot and Billy smiled. Silver just frowned. “Did I miss something?”

James leaned on the table. “If you’d sailed these seas for as long as we have, you’d know there is a mile wide length that is dead water.” He traced the area with his finger, northeast of the hog, near Rose Island. “If you’ve the time, you can drift across and wait for the trade winds to pick you up but if you’re in a hurry…” He looked up. “That lead ship out there is a first-rater; she’s fast but heavy. Once she hits that water, she’ll be lucky to get three knots.”

“So, we’re going to wait until they happen upon the water? What if they don’t?” Billy asked.

“Right now by their approach, they’ll be too close to the shore. We need to nudge them out about ten degrees.”

DeGroot frowned. “Ten degrees will still have them in range of our ships. With their superior numbers and their cannons, what’s to stop them from blowing us to hell? For that matter, what’s to stop them from sending out long boats and taking our ships by force?”

James leaned forward. “ _We’re_ to stop them! We have to. Do I need to remind you that the only thing defending our island is that fort?” He jerked his head, pointing to the west, “And that fort is empty, not to mention damaged. If the Royal Navy gets a good look at the extent of that damage and finds there are no sentinels, no resistance, they’ll sweep in unmolested.”

This time the pause was long and heavy.

James nodded. “We need to stop them _here.”_ He jabbed at the map. “What say you?

This time, all three men nodded though DeGroot still had a cautionary word, “I say yes, but it still doesn’t solve the issue. How are we going to stop the longboats from reaching our ships before we weigh anchor?”

James straightened. “I’m going to take a handful of men on the Man o’ War and distract them so the _Walrus_ and the _Colonial Dawn_ can slip away to Watlings Island.”

DeGroot narrowed his eyes. “It’s insane but it just might work barring the fact that we’ll be coming at them in a Spanish ship.”

“We’ll use that to our advantage—they’ll think nothing of attacking a pirate ship, but they’ll think twice if it’s the Spanish. By the time they realize what’s what, it will be too late.”

“Who will you take?” DeGroot asked.

“I gather you don’t want to captain the Man o’ War?” James said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Neither did DeGroot. “I think if you want this to be a successful maneuver, you’re going to have to do it yourself. No one else on this crew is capable.”

He nodded at the grudging compliment. “How many men can we spare?”

DeGroot glanced out the stern window. “If you accept the oaths from the _Colonial Dawn’s_ men, that gives you thirty. At the most.”

“Thirty for a ship that size,” he muttered.

“At the most.”

He nodded and straightened. “Very well. I’ll take Mr. Bones plus Joji, Boyle and Hansford; you choose the rest.”

“Who’s going to captain the _Colonial Dawn_?”

He smiled, because at least this was easy. “Billy? Give the orders to prepare the Man o’ War. Mr. Silver? Ask Mr. Rackham to join us and then let the men know what is to happen.”

***

Rackham glanced between James, Billy and DeGroot. “And you’re saying that you trust me? After kidnapping myself and my associate, you now trust me to captain the _Colonial Dawn?_ Do I have that correctly?”

“You do,” James said, finishing the last bit of the map he was copying for Rackham _._ “Except for the kidnapping part.”

“And I’m to take her to—” Rackham leaned forward in his chair and peered at the map. “Watlings Island and drop anchor?”

James nodded. “Near the south cove. There’s fresh water for the men and a beach you can camp on, if needed.”

“And once there, we’re to wait until you return and then my partner and I will receive a bonus of one share each?”

“Yes.”

“What if you don’t return?”

Billy crossed his arms over his chest and shifted from foot to foot.

Rackham glanced at Billy. “I mean to say, how long should we wait?”

“I’ll leave that up to Mr. DeGroot. You’re to take your orders from him.” He rolled the map up and secured it with a bit of twine.

Rackham hesitated, still watching James with mistrust as if waiting for the words that would prove him the butt of a jest. “And Max? What about her?”

“She’ll stay with you. I know you’ll keep her safe.”

“And out of trouble,” DeGroot added pointedly.

“As unexpectedly generous as this sounds, I have to ask why you trust me to play my part? What’s to stop me from just bolting with the gold?”

“Because as soon as you both are out of sight of the Navy, Mr. DeGroot is going to open his gun ports. If you show any sign of running, he’ll sink you and the treasure bedamned.”

Rackham raised one eyebrow, then nodded and stood up. “Very well. You have engaged Captain Rackham in your endeavor to protect the gold.”

He handed the map over. “Go.”

Rackham saluted with the map, then hurried off through the gun deck.

“Isn’t that a little like asking the wolf to guard the sheep?” Billy asked, doubt in every syllable.

DeGroot picked up his copy of the map and studied it while James went to his chest. “We have no choice,” James said. “We cannot leave the ships here within sight of Nassau.” He had most of what he needed on the Man o’ War, but he’d take some clothing and the extra flintlock he’d had to leave behind when he’d lost the _Walrus_.

DeGroot said, “What about Mr. Silver?”

He paused. Silver alone was a problem waiting to happen but Silver alone with Rackham and Max? “He’ll go with me. He won’t be much use but at least I won’t have to worry about him fucking us over behind our backs.”

“We can use him for ballast,” Billy said.

He actually smiled as he stood up. “Let’s tell him the good news.”

***

Silver, predictably, was unhappy with the plan and he told James so in detail as they hurried from the _Walrus_ to the Man o’ War.

“It’s not like I’ll be of any use,” Silver insisted.

“Billy?” James said, ignoring Silver as he dropped to the weather deck. “Stow that plank, then gather the men.”

“I mean, _here_ I could ensure the gold is counted properly, but _there—”_

“The gold won’t be counted for days.” When he found someplace safe, he’d give the Man o’ War a thorough review. A few of the cleats off the mainmast shrouds were loose and the deck needed a new coat of varnish. “And it won’t be counted by you.”

“But what—”

He turned and raised his sea bag. “If you want to be of service, you can put this in my cabin.”

Silver held up his hands and backed away. “I’m not your valet, thank you very much.”

“Then you can either get up there…” He pointed to the mainmast. “…and help them with the sails, or act as powder monkey and ensure we have plenty of ammunition.”

With a scowl, Silver went below. James grinned to himself and hurried to his cabin. He set the flintlock on the desk and tossed the sea bag on the chest, then returned to the deck.

The men were gathered in the waist and he joined them, the words coming easily: “By now,” he said, “Billy has told you of our situation and our plan. Like the sly fox to the witless hound, we will distract them until it’s too late. In the meantime, the _Colonial Dawn_ and the _Walrus_ will head east to Watlings Island. Once they’re away, we’ll tack through the harbor and circle back to be with our brothers and our gold.”

He expected shouts and questions, but most of the men just nodded grimly.

“The anchor is weighed; let’s be off. Mr. Hansford, a word?”

The men all scurried to their positions; Hansford followed James up to the wheel.

In terms of sailing mastery, Hansford was coming along, but he still didn’t have the years under his belt that James and DeGroot had. “My goal is to run them into the dead water at an angle. That will keep us free from their cannons and the calm.”

Hansford nodded.

“Above all, we want to avoid that slough. If we get stuck, we’ll need to tack southwest in increments and that will expose us to their broadside.”

“Mr. DeGroot already gave mention of it. He’s advised me on the solution in case the wind turns. I know what to do, Captain.”

Slightly reassured, he clapped Hansford on the shoulder. “Very good.”

Silver was waiting for him on the quarterdeck. “Our ammunition stores are low.”

“As assumed.”

“I won’t try to talk you out of this insane venture,” Silver added.

“Why would you? The gold is the only reason you’re here, remember?” He glanced up; the sails were filling slowly. The sheets creaked, the boat swayed and they were off, pulling away from the shore.

To the east, the Navy’s first-rate frigate was closing in with the second right behind; they’d be directly north within thirty minutes. He got out his glass and scanned the ships. “If they decide to investigate what’s going on back there…” He nodded to the shore “…then all is lost.”

“Speaking of…” Silver said absently.

“Yes?” he said, equally absent. The third-rater was unfamiliar but the other two… “What is it?”

“What _is_ going on back there?”

He turned to the stern rail. “Where?”

Silver shaded his eyes. “On the beach—who is that?”

It was difficult to see as the _Walrus_ blocked the view but he could just make out two men pushing a dinghy into the surf.

He swore under his breath and hurried to the rail, finding a better position. The men waded through the churning surf and then climbed in. They picked up the oars and began to row.

“Is that Mr. Scott?” Silver asked.

“It is.”

“And that’s Mr. Howell, as well. He told me he was going into Nassau for supplies. Now where do you think he’s been?”

He was about to tell Silver to mind his own fucking business when he heard another shout.

“Captain!” It was Billy; he’d seen the same thing and was hurrying up the gangway. “Is that Dr. Howell and Mr. Scott?”

“It is.”

“I thought they had orders to stay with Miss Ashe and Mr. Martin!”

He glanced at Silver while he scowled at Billy but didn’t bother censuring either because what was the point? The only point was that the men he’d sent to protect Thomas and Abigail were on their way back, rowing against the tide for all they were worth.

“Something’s happened,” Billy breathed, crowding James at the rail.

Yes, something had happened and it was nothing good. He’d given explicit orders; Howell might not obey them to the letter, but Scott would do only that. “We can do nothing at the moment; we must continue on.” The dinghy disappeared behind the _Walrus._

“But—”

He rounded on Billy. “We can do _nothing_. Do you understand?”

Whatever was in his face, whatever had bled though his words, Billy _did_ understand because he nodded slowly. “All right.”

“When we’re done with our run, we’ll double back as quickly as possible.”

Billy nodded again, this time firmly. “Let’s hope our wind holds.”

James wanted to say more but Silver was watching. “Get down there,” he said to Billy, “and make sure the men know their roles.”

“I take it something has happened to Miss Ashe?” Silver asked as soon as they were alone. When James didn’t answer, he added, “Which, by default, means that something has happened to your Mr. Martin.”

He turned. Silver was watching him with something akin to understanding and it was that which tempered his anger. “If we’re to live through this, I need you down there encouraging the men to give it their best. Can you do that?”

Silver drew up, all traces of humor and sarcasm gone. “I can,” he said quietly. “But after all this is through, you and I are going to have a conversation.” He turned awkwardly to the ladder. “I, for one, can’t wait.”

James ignored him. Scott and Howell were being helped aboard by the crew of _Walrus._ Scott ran to the gunwale. He made a gesture that was lost as the _Walrus_ turned east and the Man o’ War edged west.

There were only a few reasons why Scott would return without his charges and as James affixed his glass on the lead British frigate, he listed them, each more ridiculous than the last. One of the interior’s plantation owners had invited Thomas and Abigail to his estate, forcibly dismissing Scott back to the boat. Either Abigail or Thomas had taken ill and had been rushed to Nassau for treatment by Dr. Livesey. Either Abigail or Thomas had been injured and Scott rushed to the ship for aid.

He frowned, recognizing the foolish effort for what it was as all the scenarios presupposed that Howell was not in residence. No, if both Scott and Howell had returned to the ship, it was because Abigail and Thomas were no longer at the house. Which meant—

Which meant he had to heed his own words that there was nothing he could do for the moment, and he focused his attention as he focused the glass.

The frigates hadn’t changed direction and were now due north. The Man o’ War had cleared the island and they were moving along at a decent speed, cutting northwest towards the frigates.

Another two minutes and they’d be in position. He looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Ready about, Mr. Hansford! I want to come up to them at an angle and drive them in!”

“Ready about,” Hansford returned with a shout.

They were nearly two hundred feet away from the first-rater and he could now make out the figures on the deck. In typical Navy fashion, every man was in his place, including the officers who crowded the fo’c’s’le, spyglasses trained on the James and Man o’ War. “Mr. Bones?”

“Captain?”

“Let’s give them a reason to run—raise the black!”

His order was repeated across the decks and he waited with almost glad anticipation. His back was to the flag but he saw its effects and he sneered as the officers on deck began to move in agitation, one hurrying to the rail to call out something to the sailing master, another sending a boy scurrying across the deck to the great cabin.

Still, the first-rater didn’t change course. “Move, you bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “ _Move_.”

He gave it another minute, then called out, “Mr. Hansford! Come about ten degrees starboard—they need some convincing.”

“Ten degrees starboard!” Hanson replied.

The Man o’ War responded smoothly, turning into the wind and picking up speed, the sails and sheets snapping.

“Captain!” Billy called out by the bow. “They’re tacking!”

“Finally,” he muttered as the frigate edged north and the second followed suit. “Mr. Hansford, stay on course but be on alert—I don’t want to cut it too close.” He went to the ladder, jumping the last few feet.

“They’re not happy,” Billy said as James met him at the bow.

He smiled meanly. Even through the glass, he could see the worry on the officers’ faces. He turned his eye to the frigate’s sails—it might be his imagination that they were less full… “And our ships?”

Billy leaned over the rail. “They’re underway, but slowly.”

“Slowly is good. Slowly means the enemy won’t know what is happening until it’s too late.”

Neither spoke for a moment as he watched the frigates continue course and speed. Had he miscalculated? They should have reached the dead waters by now.

“What if we fire a shot across her bow?” Billy asked absently.

“And give them reason to return fire?” he responded, just as absently. “We can’t compete in that fight. They’d—” He paused as the sails began to collapse, first the royals and t’gallants, then the rest. Within seconds, the sailing master raised the alarm and ran to the officers on deck.

“Give the order to tack west by southwest, Billy, we’re going to—” He took a breath, squinting through the glass.

The frigates were truly dead in the water, their sails lax, almost motionless. The Man o’ War, was now close enough that he could make out the features of the officers for the first time. He’d assumed, with such a venture, he’d be dealing with a rear admiral or even a vice admiral. But the man at the stern, the man staring at him through his own glass wasn’t any of those ranks. He was a full admiral and very familiar.

“Oh, my God,” James whispered.

“Captain? Shouldn’t we come about?”

It had been nine years since that day at Whitehall and he hadn’t forgotten a second of it. The stench of the Thames at high tide, the sound of his boots on the marble stairs, Hennessey’s grimace as he’d quietly said, _‘It is too loathsome to be dismissed.’_ “He looks just the same,” he murmured.

Billy grabbed his arm. “Captain!”

His hesitation of a moment had cost them—they’d sailed a few yards too close and were almost within firing range of the frigate. He shouted over his shoulder, “Come about, damn you!”

His order was repeated across the ship even as Billy grabbed his arm, pointing, saying urgently, “We can’t! Look!”

He followed Billy’s gesture, not having to use the glass to see that the gun ports were opening, one by one. “ _Fuck!”_ he snarled, thinking quickly. It would take the Navy three minutes to prepare the cannons. With his wind dying, there wasn’t enough time to speed past, come about or even ram them. They could, of course, use their own cannons but that would be insanity and he wasn’t ready to die.

“What’s our plan?” Silver asked, climbing out of the waist.

He surveyed the situation and his shoulders dropped.

“Well?” Silver demanded.

“Well, Mr. Silver,” he said with a grin that was anything but happy, “you’re going to get something you’ve wanted ever since you met me.”

“And that is?”

“We’re going to lower the black and I’m going to offer myself up for surrender. While I’m in the longboat, you and Billy will get the Man o’ War turned. You’ll sail around the hog and then travel on to Watlings.”

Silver’s mouth dropped open. “Is that the best you can do?”

“It’s the _only_ thing I can do! In thirty second’s time the Navy will have those cannons in position; in two minute’s time, they’re going to start firing. We won’t survive that!”

Silver swallowed, then nodded. “You’re right. We won’t.”

“Then give the word. Now.”

Silver turned and scrambled back down the ladder, shouting, _“Lower the black! Make ready a longboat!”_

James didn’t have to see the men to know their reaction to the orders. Hopefully, one day they’d forgive him; hopefully, one day he’d forgive himself because he felt almost sick to his stomach as his flag was lowered.

He raised the glass again, not surprised to see Hennessey call out an order that was relayed across the ship; all activity around the cannons ceased.

“I’m coming with you.”

He turned. Billy was watching him, pale and determined. “No, you’re not. I need you to get this ship out of here.”

“She’s there,” Billy said again, this time reaching out to grab James’s arm. “They have her. Miss Ashe. She’s on that ship and I’m coming with you.”

“ _What?”_

Billy gestured to the frigate. “See for yourself.”

He couldn’t find her at first. The frigate had four masts, miles of rigging and a crew of at least two hundred. He raked the deck again, finally spying her. She was standing by the starboard gangway, holding onto the balustrade. Two soldiers were trying to get her to let go, but she was refusing. She said something to one of the men and then looked straight at the Man o’ War.

“That girl is like a bad penny,” he growled under his breath, and then louder, “She’s doing that on purpose. She wants us to see her.”

“That was my guess.”

“They won’t hurt her,” he said, not believing his own words even as he spoke them. The men had pried Abigail’s fingers from the balustrade and were dragging her below.

“How can you know that?”

“She’s done nothing. She’s a peer of the realm. They won’t hurt her.”

“If they found her with Mr. Scott, they’ll know she was on this ship, yeah? They’ll know _he_ was on this ship.”

He paused. “You don’t know Thomas is with Abigail.”

“Where else would he be?” Billy glanced about, then leaned in to whisper, “I don’t know why your friend was on the _James_ but it’s clear that he was on the run.”

James turned on Billy, replying fiercely, “He wasn’t. Any charges against him were trumped-up and—” He shook his head. “He’s not a criminal.”

“Mrs. Barlow wasn’t criminal. That didn’t seem to matter in the end.”

He stilled, remembering that day, that moment. He wanted to say the situations weren’t the same. He wanted to say they were dealing with different arms of English society, but the truth of it was, it didn’t really matter—the English were all the same and he suddenly felt as if he’d never belonged to them, that he’d always been what he now was. “I need you here to make sure this ship and these men get to Watlings Island in one piece.”

“You need me on that boat.”

He closed the subject by closing the spyglass, striding to the bulwark ladder. As he was preparing to climb over, Billy once again grabbed his arm.

He rounded on Billy, snarling, “What can you do that I can’t?”

“I can do the _only_ thing you _can’t!_ When you make a petition on Miss Ashe’s behalf, it will make her situation worse. Your only option is to cause a distraction so she can escape, but she can’t do that on her own!”

“Go on.”

Billy released him. “Once you’ve drawn their attention, I’ll find someway to rescue her. You said it yourself: fox to hounds.”

Surprised by Billy’s logic and authority, he thought it over. “It might work.”

“It will.”

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll distract the hell out of them. You rescue her.” He turned to his cabin.

Billy let him go. “Where are you going?”

“To get dressed for the part.”

***

With his back to the frigate, he couldn’t keep an eye on Hennessey. It was like operating with a target on his back, feeling that at any second, he’d hear the sharp retort of a pistol and feel a bullet go through his chest.

Since he’d become Flint, he’d never thought much about the manner of his own death. It had been important to live in order to make real Thomas’s dream but beyond that, he hadn’t cared. He was going to hell, that was a surety. He’d made peace with that fact long ago and went into every situation with that in mind. That he was forever separated from Thomas had been a surety, as well, because no matter what anyone said or thought, if ever there was a man meant for heaven, it was Thomas.

But now, everything had changed. Though he and Thomas would part ways once they were both safe, he no longer thought in terms of today and tomorrow. He wanted months and years and decades—perhaps by then, Thomas would forgive him and they could find some way to be together. It was a strange, intoxicating thing, the idea of a future with Thomas no matter how distant, and he thought again, _‘I’m not ready.’_

“We’re almost there,” Billy said.

He nodded; they were slipping into a long shadow and he knew without having to turn around that the ship was close by. “When we get up there, look to any opportunity. The admiral is a past acquaintance but he’s also an admiral—he’ll want to put on a show for the men, to teach them the value of not jumping ship. I’m going to use that to buy us time.”

“And Miss Ashe?”

“I’ll make sure she’s the last thing on their minds. You will find her and get her off that ship, even if you have to throw her overboard and then jump in yourself.”

“What if they shoot at us?”

“Doubtful—they’ll not risk hitting her.”

“What about her skirts?”

“She’s a fighter. She’ll give you time to grab her.”

Billy thought about that, then nodded. “Aye, aye.”

“And, Billy,” he said hesitantly, unsure if what he was going to say was wise—he’d lived so long under the guiding principal that to show weakness was to invite betrayal. “If you see Thomas, if you get the chance, will you do the same? Will you help him escape?”

“I will.”

He glanced sideways; Billy wasn’t scowling or sneering.

“I know about him and you,” Billy said with a shrug. “I know why you’re really giving in to those bastards.”

There it was, out in the open, and if he’d ever thought admitting the truth would soothe his soul, he would have been wrong because it didn’t feel good and he didn’t feel clean. “The men—do they know?”

“Mr. Scott and Mr. Silver, yes, but the rest? I have no idea; maybe not.”

He squinted out at the water, thinking on that.

“They wouldn’t care, anyway,” Billy added. “Long as you didn’t give him light duty or their shares, the men don’t care who you fuck. In fact, I think most of them would be relieved—it would make you more human.”

He bent his lips in a weak smile. He’d said something similar to Vane not too long ago.

“What is so funny?” Billy asked with a scowl.

“I’m just thinking of your reaction compared the Navy’s.”

“Kicked you out did they?”

He nodded.

“Bet they’re regretting that.”

This time he laughed out loud as he felt the clean sweep of destiny fall on his shoulders. He’d been running from this for what seemed like forever. He was finally going to face his accuser and _that_ felt good, _that_ felt clean. He’d go out with his head held high and fuck them all. He’d trust in Billy’s determination and skill and what came after would be up to the God he’d turned his back on so long ago. “Thank you.”

Billy shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

***

They reached the hull a few minutes later. A ladder was dropped and they rowed towards it; Billy tied the boat off while James started his climb. Knowing this role by heart, he mounted the gunwale as gracefully as possible and rose to stand there.

He knew what the crew would see: a demon scarred by battle and armed to the teeth, his heavy linen coat eddying about him like dark cloud. He gave it a moment, making sure all eyes were on him, then jumped to the deck and strode the center.

Normally, a third of a frigate’s crew would be in their hammocks sleeping off their watch while the other two thirds went about the business of the ship. But the crowd before him was easily the full ship’s complement. They lined the bulwarks and decks, they hung suspended on the shrouds and spars, some jostling for position, all watching with no small amount of fear.

He glanced around, fruitlessly scanning the deck for Abigail while he waited for the main protagonist, needing him so they could get this farce over with.

“Captain Flint!”

_Here we go,_ he thought, turning to watch grimly as Hennessey came forward from the stern, his men parting like the Red Sea. Hennessey stopped some fifteen feet away and gave James a good look, allowing him the same freedom.

Distance had been a liar. The years had not been kind to Hennessey, after all. He’d put on weight he couldn’t afford and his face was lined, his eyes rheumy. He was at the most sixty-five, not old by desk-admiral standards—perhaps he’d been ill.

“Well?” Hennessey said, finally breaking the stalemate. “I’ll concede the opening strike by speaking first.”

James said nothing, forcing Hennessey to make the next move, which he did with an irritated sigh, “For so many years, I have been waiting for this moment.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Really? I had no idea.” He felt movement more than saw it; Billy had come aboard. “I’ve been right here. You could have stopped by anytime.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “We could have had tea.”

Hennessey made a gesture, like a slash of a sword. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? I’ve come to talk terms, that’s all.”

“Then let’s get to it.” Hennessey took a step back. “Join me in my cabin.” He turned to go only to be stopped by James.

“No.” He didn’t shout, he didn’t have to—the crew was listening avidly. “We do this here.”

Hennessey hesitated long enough for James to wonder if he’d have to press the issue, but then Hennessey turned and said, “Very well. But do not point fingers at me if my men learn something they shouldn’t.”

He sneered. “Such as?”

“You know well.”

“You mean being cast out of the Navy, being cast out of England?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Do you think I give a fuck what your men think?” Billy had been slowly moving around the loose circle of men and was now directly opposite. The crew, focused on the play in front of them, gave little notice. “Because I don’t, nor do I care much for your regard, either.”

Another touch—Hennessey winced, just a little. “You once did.”

“I’ve changed.”

Hennessey looked him up and down. “So, I see. And not for the better.”

It was crucial that he not get lost to the past, that he maintain a certain level of control. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

Hennessey’s expression grew dark. “That’s a matter of record.”

James smiled at his third hit. “According to you, this is who I’ve always been, a monster in sheep’s clothing.”

“I never called you a monster.”

He cocked his head. “Didn’t you? That last day at the Admiralty, wasn’t that your implication, that I was beyond the pale, a damned soul lucky to be given your indulgence?”

“What did you expect? You knew the consequences of your actions, you knew what they would lead to!”

“I knew that for once in my life that I had become what I was and I was punished for it.”

“You were never that, never a—” Hennessey broke off, quickly glancing at the crew that was now practically breathing down their necks. He drew a deep, deep breath and added, “It was not your fault; you were led astray by someone who should have known better. But what came after? That was very much your fault.”

Odd, that phrase. _‘Not your fault.’_ Hennessey had never attempted to put blame to anyone all those years ago. He had subtly warned and maybe he had surmised but he had never—

James clenched his jaw, hoping the unbidden movement was too small for Hennessey to notice because Billy had been right, Thomas was here on this ship and Hennessey was taking him back to England to face whatever retribution he could trump up.

In an instant, any leftover empathy or love he’d had for Hennessey was gone, burned to cinder because, as always, Thomas came first. He put his hand on his sword, using the movement as a distraction while he gave Billy a quick glance.

Billy met it just as quick and returned his own slight nod.

“It amazes me that men,” James said meditatively, “when confronted with the results of their poor decisions, are always surprised when the results of those decisions turn around to bite them on the ass.” Where was Thomas? In the main cabin or stowed away with the junior officers?

“Is this your way of saying _I’m_ to blame for all this?” Hennessey gestured to Nassau, to James.

“No, all _this_ is so much more than you know.” They could have put Thomas in the hold, in the galley; hell, he could even be down in the orlop with the bilge water.

“Would you care to explain that cryptic comment because I’m eager to learn how you justify murdering so many innocent people. Was it the money? The power?”

“No,” he said with mock sadness. “I won’t explain myself to you.” Billy had reached the cabin door. “But I will tell you why I am here.”

“I’m assuming it’s a clumsy attempt to cause a delay while your ships circle around to come to your rescue.” Hennessey shook his head. “James, that is what truly surprises me, that you would have forgotten who taught you such tactics.”

“It is no delay. My men have strict orders not to come to my aid.” Slowly, he lifted his baldric over his head and held it out with as much ceremony as he could muster. “I’m here to offer up myself for Miss Ashe.”

All were silent. He could hear the creak of the masts and the hull, the wind through the sails, the cries of the gulls and the terns.

Hennessey tipped his head. “Why would you do that?”

“Because she’s a young girl, because she’s innocent of any wrong-doing.”

“What makes you think she’s on this ship?” Hennessey gestured for a boy to fetch James’s sword.

“I know she’s on this ship,” he said simply, “because I saw her.”

For the first time Hennessey showed true surprise, true anger, and he looked about as if he’d find the culprit that had let Abigail loose. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “She is here—I’m retrieving her for the man you murdered, a man you once called friend.” He shook his head sadly. “And you wonder why I said you’ve changed. The James I knew would have never done such a thing.”

Unless Hennessey had intercepted a courier traveling south there was no chance the he’d gotten a full report of the assault on Charles Town. James lowered his head and bluffed, saying softly, “If you want these proceedings to move along without bloodshed, I suggest you speak no further of that day.”

Hennessey considered that, then nodded. “Agreed. And though I have no intention of releasing anyone on my ship as part of an exchange, at least you can see they are unharmed. You will then communicate this to your ships out in the harbor who, no matter what you say, are waiting to attack.” He looked over his shoulder and called out, “Pickram?”

Pickram.

That bastard was here on this ship and James’s hand went to the hilt that was no longer there as he scanned the deck. An officer stepped from the crowd near the larboard swivel guns. As he passed behind Hennessey, he gave James a sly, eager smile.

As with Hennessey, Pickram was much changed—his skin was pasty pale and his hair was thinner, his eyes meaner. That grin, however, was eerily the same and James prepared himself for whatever it was to come.

They’d been stowed away in the main cabin, after all. Abigail was brought out first, flanked by two soldiers who led her to Hennessey. She wasn’t bound in any way, but there was a bruise on her cheek and her dress was torn. His first instinct was to ask after her well-being but he remembered Billy’s comment about Miranda and said nothing, and he almost didn’t care because Pickram came next, escorting a man who stood inches above the rest.

It was comical, James thought as he stared, heart in his throat. So fucking comical that he thought he could ever truly be prepared for this moment, because he’d seen Thomas, but Thomas hadn’t seen _him. S_ omehow that made a difference and now that the moment was upon him, he drank Thomas in like he was a cup of fresh, cool water.

Thomas was wearing only the breeches and shirt he himself had found after rifling through the clothing on the Man o’ War. He had no shoes or stockings and his elegant feet were grey with dirt. Unlike Abigail, Hennessey’s crew had hurt him—his hands were manacled and there were bruises about his face and throat as well as traces of blood on his chin.

But his slight smile was just the same, his deep blue eyes were just the same, the latter shining, speaking to James silently, saying, _‘There you are.’_

“Well?” someone said, breaking through his daze. It was Pickram, leering as if he’d just won a prize of immense value. “Nothing to say?”

It took some doing, but he drew his gaze from Thomas’s. If he was to get through this, he needed to keep his head, and a bruised and bleeding Thomas was the greatest distraction of all. “What would you have me say?”

“Something along the lines of, _‘I’ve missed you, Thomas,’_ or ‘ _I thought you were dead, Thomas,’”_ Pickram answered with glee, giving Thomas a slight push. “Don’t be shy. We all know what really went on back then.”

Fury burned white hot but he met it calmly. “Was that why you were so angry all those years ago, Pickram? Was it really because of my station and Lady Hamilton? Or was it because I had what you secretly wanted?”

As expected, Pickram snarled and lurched forward only to be stopped by Hennessey. “Lieutenant!” He shoved Pickram back. “Enough!” He drew a long breath. “Enough. We are not here for this. We need to—”

“Speaking of,” James interrupted coolly, “why _are_ you here? Why now?” In the skirmish between Hennessey and Pickram, Billy had once again moved and was now within arm’s reach of Abigail and Thomas. It was time to start the mutiny. This large a crew always had simmering tensions and feuds—he needed to place his barbs just so and the whole ship would explode.

He took a pace to the left, then back again, making his movements smooth, languid. “Is it because of the French? Is it because peace with Spain is proving a fragile thing? Or is it because your army has proved no match for mine?”

“Hardly,” Hennessey answered. “We’re here on business that is none of your concern.”

“None of my concern?” he mocked with great joy. “Everything here is my concern or didn’t you know? It is I, who control this island, I, who control this world.” He was speaking to the men now, and he turned a half circle, seducing them with his words, his gestures, his very being. “And I, in turn, am controlled by my men. No man on my crew has a master they’re beholden to, least of all me!”

Hennessey frowned and started to speak but James rode over him, calling out loudly to the listening crew, “Do you hear that, men? While you toil and slave for a fucking _pittance_ and the chance to say _yes, sir_ and _no, sir,_ my men enjoy the freedom of choice, the freedom of doing what they please, when they please!”

As he’d hoped, the crew murmured and Billy had edged forward another two feet. When the time came, he would only have to slip his arms around Thomas and Abigail to pull them out of the way and over to the bulwark.

“Stop this,” Hennessey said, stepping forward, looking around at his men. “You must—”

“But, beyond that,” James shouted, now pitching his voice to the men in the shrouds, the bow and the stern, “my men are rich, taking what they need to live the life they want!”

As one, the crew shifted about restlessly, talking to their mates under their voices, casting unsure glances towards Hennessey and his officers.

“You will stop this at once,” Hennessey called out, speaking not to James but to his men. “This black pirate is inciting you to mutiny, a crime punishable by death!”

“And there we have it,” James shouted, pointing straight at Hennessey, nudging the men towards the edge. “I will never threaten you! I will never coerce you! I will only ask that you share the power _you_ give _me!_ I will only ask that you—”

All this time, Pickram had said nothing, responding uneasily at every point James had made, but this last was apparently too much. With a bellow, he broke rank and drew his short sword, rushing at James, blade held high.

He’d been waiting for this moment and as the crew erupted in confused, unfocused violence, he acted. He lunged for his sword and grabbed it from the frightened boy, unsheathing it in the same motion.

He met Pickram near the hatch and they traded brutal blows while he watched out of the corner of his eye as Billy pulled Thomas and Abigail towards the bulwark. Only a precious few seconds were all they had; he had to make them count, and he snarled and redoubled the attack, forcing Pickram back towards the wheel.

Pickram was already weakening—time not at sea had made him soft and James sneered, ducking in to make a play at Pickram’s belly. Pickram jumped back with a snarl that changed to a grin as he looked over James’s shoulder.

James glanced back—a small crowd of soldiers was advancing, weapons up. James kicked Pickram in the gut and sent him flying, then turned to meet the new threat.

The milling junior officers had formed a knot behind him but they were terrified; when he came at them as one, they ran, pushing into the herd. “Cowards,” he muttered under his breath, turning to examine the results of his handiwork.

All around, the crew, whether defecting or not, were fighting amongst themselves, a confusion of close-quarter tactics. A few, however, had kept their wits and had gone for Billy, attempting to stop him. He was holding them off with his sword and fists, giving Abigail time to climb over the gunwale while Thomas helped.

As in all battles, there was a brief moment of respite where everything slowed to a crawl. He watched as Thomas leaned across the gunwale to guide Abigail over. Watched as Billy knocked a man down with a blow to the head and as a blue-coated officer dodged Billy’s long reach to make a play for Abigail.

…watched as Thomas climbed to the gunwale to pull the officer off only to be grabbed from behind by another carrying a raised blade.

The moment stilled further and he could hear his own heart, his own quick breath that was really a gasp. He didn’t bother shouting a warning—he charged. Across the deck in great leaps, slashing at a lieutenant and then a captain that got in his way, on Thomas’s attacker within seconds. He seized the man by the queue sand jerked, pulling him off Thomas, dragging his head back, sword to his throat. He clenched his fist and pressed down—

“No!”

He froze. He was panting with rage, his hands and face dripping with blood—he could smell it, could feel its dying heat. He growled and pressed again.

“James, no.”

He looked up, teeth clenched, still panting.

Thomas was still on the gunwale, crouched low, but his manacled hands were up in entreaty and his eyes were wide with fear. “Don’t.”

“He was going to kill you.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he would have.”

Thomas actually smiled. “But he didn’t.” He slipped off the gunwale and straightened up. “Let him go, James,” he said again, this time with a hint of steel. “I won’t have you harming anyone because of me.”

“‘ _Harming_ anyone?’” came a voice, ringing across the now-silent ship.

James looked around. The fighting, whatever it had been, was over. In the middle of the vanguard stood Hennessey. His wig was gone and his face was flushed bright red. “‘ _Harming_ anyone?’” he repeated, coming forward to stand by the swing guns. “Look around you!” He gestured wildly, pointing the two men bleeding out on the deck. “It’s too late for that, too late for him!” he added with venom, now speaking only to Thomas. “You know your father and mother died at sea but do you know how?”

Thomas swallowed but said nothing.

“They were both barbarously murdered by _him!_ ” Hennessey pointed at James as if he were stabbing the air. “By Captain James Flint. He cut them up so viciously, there was nothing left but two mangled corpses.”

He’d never felt the need to apologize for that and he’d be damned if he was going to start now. But he couldn’t look at Thomas, could only release the man in his arms and shove him across the deck. He curled his lip at the fucking irony of it all when the man turned—it had been Pickram he’d held so closely, Pickram he’d almost sliced open.

“How you can find anything humorous in this situation is beyond me,” Hennessey said to James. “You truly aren’t the man I thought you were and you are going to hang for—”

At first he thought it was a cannon from the defunct fort that interrupted Hennessey, mid-tirade. He flinched at the low _boom,_ then ran to the rail to stand next to Thomas. There was no movement on the island or fortifications and he was turning to ask Billy if he’d seen anything when he heard it again. _Boom._

The rumble was followed by a large splash at the frigate’s bow and that could only mean one thing. “Protect them,” he shouted to Billy, “but keep them on this ship!” He rushed across the deck to the starboard rail, shoving through the crowd of soldiers. He got out his glass.

Always expecting the worst, he’d only been truly surprised a handful of times. The first had been when an acquaintance-turned-friend had cautiously leaned in to give him the kiss that had changed his life. The last had been when he’d entered a smoke-filled cabin to find that same friend, long thought dead, clasping an unconscious girl to his chest.

And now, truly surprised once more, this time by the sweet sight of two ships riding the wind hard, all men on deck, all gun ports open.

_“The black! The black!”_ a sailor shouted as another asked, trepidation in every bit of his voice, “Who is it? Can you see?”

James answered softly, though the question hadn’t been meant for him and no one could hear, anyway, “It’s Captain Charles Vane of the _Swift Jane_ and Captain Edward Teach of the _Queen Anne’s Revenge.”_

Teach was on the quarterdeck of the _Queen Anne_ , fists on his hips. Vane was at the bow of the _Jane_. Beside him stood a familiar figure, her bright hair streaming out behind her, catching the afternoon sun. James raised his hand; with a smile, Eleanor answered the same.

Blood singing, he closed the glass and turned. He stared at Hennessey, still standing by the guns. It was over. He knew it, Hennessey knew it.

“Well?” he said as he strolled across the deck. “I don’t need to tell you what will happen if I and mine are not released, do I?”

Hennessey glanced at his men, now terrified. “No,” he finally ground out, “you don’t. Get off my ship and go to hell.”

James raised his bloody sword in a salute and bowed deeply. “With all my heart I’ll gladly do both.”


	4. Three Dangerous Things

Book IV  
Three Dangerous Things

_........................................_

_Nassau_

_‘Again, my apologies for the delay in this letter. Look to our return by the 14th at the latest and if you can be so good as to pass this on to Pastor Reynolds, I would be most grateful.’_

_Yrs  
Thomas Martin_

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Mr. McGraw and Captain Vane are fighting?”

She was at the window again, looking out although there wasn’t much to see. Other than the brothel across the street, the passersby and drunken pirates. “Come away from the window, please.”

“I was told they are not of friendly terms,” she said, wandering back across the room. “Do you think Captain Vane will attempt to harm Mr. McGraw?”

He blotted the words he’d just written. “I think they will be fine,” he said, not adding that if anyone should be afraid, it should be Vane. After witnessing James’s performance on the ship, he now understood why Flint’s name was spoken with such terror. “Why don’t you rest? You’ve been through a trying time.”

“As have you. I heard them, you know.”

“Heard, who?”

“Admiral Hennessey’s men,” Abigail murmured with a frown. “Though we were separated by a room, I heard what they said to you and did to you.”

He paused, refusing to look up. He couldn’t think about that now; later, when he had time, but not now… “Have you mentioned it to James, what you overheard?”

“No, there hasn’t been time.”

“Then, please keep the information to yourself.” He glanced up, a quick look to make sure he was understood. “He won’t take the news well.”

She paced restlessly. “How can you? How can you sit there day after day, after all that has happened?”

He returned to his letter. “Because I have learned the value of waiting, of patience.”

Abigail hesitated, then flopped down on the settee. She picked up a pillow. “Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“About Mr. McGraw?”

“A minute, please.” He folded the letter and wrote _Mr. Douglass Cameron, Ashe House, Wadmalaw Island, Carolina._ That done, he looked up.

The morning had turned to late afternoon while he’d been writing and the sun shone bright through the balcony doors. The room was too colorful, almost relentless in its gaudiness. Everything needed a good coat of paint, from the shutters to the walls to the ceiling. He did, however, like the myriad of decorative influences: Spanish, French and what he thought had to be African. “Yes?”

She frowned and began to tug at a loose thread on the pillow’s trim. “Yes. About him—”

She’d colored deeply and he sighed silently. He’d been waiting for this ever since he’d read Peter’s letters. He got up and went to sit next to her. “You know what you want to ask so be brave enough to ask it.”

Goaded, she looked up and said directly, “You and he—” She blushed again, but didn’t drop his gaze. “I understand what you mean to each other.”

He nodded. “I know you do.”

“I didn’t know such things were possible.”

“They very much are.”

“I was shocked at first but now…” She shrugged. “My father knew, as well, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“Is that why he hated Mr. McGraw?”

“In part.”

“What’s the other part?”

He turned sideways and rested his arm along the back of the settee. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not important.” _Because it’s not for you. Because I want you to have at least some fond memories of your father._ “Some day I might tell you, but not today.”

She nodded, pacified for the moment. “Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“I knew before. About you and Mr. McGraw, I mean.” She looked down at the pillow again. “While at the house—Mrs. Barlow’s house, I mean—I was searching for something to read and I came upon a book. It was by a man named Marcus Aurelius.”

He drew a quick breath. “ _Meditations?”_

She nodded. “I only read a bit and I didn’t understand much of it.” She looked up. “But I understood the dedication though it took me some time to make the connection.”

He’d thought it long since destroyed, that book. “Do you still have it?” James must have kept it and that meant something, yes?

“It seemed a dangerous thing to leave lying around so I hid it. I’ll give it to you when we return to the house.”

He held out his arms and she came to him. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. “You don’t know what that means to me.”

They stayed that way for a long while, then she withdrew to sit up.

“Did I tell you how much I like that color on you?” he said.

She smiled, for once looking like the young girl she was. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She stroked the red silk brocade. “Miss Guthrie said it came all the way from the Orient. She has asked her mantua maker to sew me a copy, only in peacock blue.”

He hid a smile at her easy distraction. “I am sure you will look very charming in it.”

“When are we going home?”

“Do you mean Charles Town or London?”

Her happy smile gone, she stared thoughtfully at Eleanor’s messy desk. “I used to only think of London as my true home. But after these last few weeks, I no longer know.”

“Then, I suppose a better question would be, where do you want to go from here?”

She smiled sadly. “I don’t know that either. Now that my father is dead, I suppose I must marry.”

He took her hand. “I believe it’s best, for the time being, to think in terms of months, not years; so, where do you want to be in a month’s time?”

She glanced out of the side of her eye. “If I’m to be honest with myself, I must own that I want to be with you or James. Or here.”

She’d colored again, for a different reason. Mr. Manderly had been making regular visits to the tavern and each time, Abigail had found a reason to go downstairs.

It was sweet but a little worrisome. Peter had been entrenched in his belief of the superiority of the peerage; no doubt, he’d written his will with that in mind. If Abigail were to keep her inheritance, she would have to marry well. He wasn’t foolish enough to tell her that now, though—it was a problem for another day. So he squeezed her hand and said, “Whatever you decide, I will support you as long as it’s not a decision that will put you in harm’s way. Just make sure the conclusion is your own and not what you think your father or mother would have wanted.”

“I will try.”

He patted her hand and gently pulled free. He rose and went to the balcony doors and pulled the curtain aside. It felt good to stand without the floor tipping this way and that. Only three days ago while wandering through the market with Abigail, he’d had another spell, this one mild though he’d had to sit down for a moment. Since then, he’d only been troubled once, and that had been while in bed. Hopefully, that had been the end of it and he touched the wall, as if for luck.

“Thomas?”

“I’m fine,” he answered absently, watching the street below. Whatever threat the Navy had posed, the townspeople seemed to have forgotten it. They moved about easily, some in pairs, some alone, all going about their business as normal people did. James had been right, all those years ago—Nassau was an amazing place.

“About Miss Guthrie?”

“What about her?”

“When she rescued me from the fort, she was terrified of Captain Vane. But then he rescues _her,_ and she is no longer afraid of him. How can that be?”

“I don’t know Miss Guthrie well, but from what I saw, I doubt she was terrified _of_ him. Maybe it was more that she was afraid _for_ him.” Down below near the butcher, a woman and a man were arguing in the middle of the thoroughfare.

“What’s the difference?”

“The former implies that she dislikes him and I don’t think that’s the case.” The man said something the woman didn’t like and she boxed him about the ear. He stumbled away cursing her while she went back to her shopping. “I think she has feelings for him, but their situations are difficult and thus her feelings are complicated.”

“Like Romeo and Juliet?”

He smiled at the unfortunate juxtaposition, at the comparison of the innocent Romeo and a man like Charles Vane. “Something like.”

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“When are James and Miss Guthrie returning from Harbor Island?”

She had asked him that question earlier in the day and he gave her the same answer, “I am not sure.”

“They were supposed to return this morning.”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you worried that they might be in danger after what Admiral Hennessey said at the house?”

“No, I’m not worried. Miss Guthrie intimated they might be gone as much as a week and it has only been four days. Besides, they have promises of safe passage from Whitehall and the assurance that they’ll be protected should Spain demand recompense. The Admiralty won’t renege on the former and will protect against the latter.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “With Mr. Rogers acting as diplomat they are in good hands; he has the ear of the King and Hennessey knows it.” It didn’t hurt that three fully armed pirate ships were anchored out of reach of the Harbor Island’s batteries, but he left that part out.

“You like him, don’t you? Mr. Rogers, I mean.”

He thought about that. “I do, but I’m not sure I trust him.”

“James doesn’t like him. He and Eleanor discussed Mr. Rogers before they left.”

Thomas had overheard them as well, the night he and Abigail had been delivered to this place. It had been an argument about ‘… _retrieving that fucking gold before anyone else makes off with it!’_ and _‘I’m supposed to play nice now they’ve come crawling on their bellies? Fuck that!’_

He wasn’t sure what had shocked him more—James’s profanities or his extreme anger. He would have liked to discuss both, just the two of them, but James and Miss Guthrie had left soon after. “James is having trouble adjusting to this change of heart on the part of the Crown. ”

“Because you wanted that very thing and were imprisoned because of it?”

“Yes.”

“And he is angry because they hurt you over it?”

He looked over at her. “Yes.” The sun’s rays had moved through the room and a bright length of it lay across her face and shoulders. If he were an artist, he’d want to capture her beauty on canvas. “The world is a confusing place isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question but she nodded. “At first, I didn’t understand, but now I think my misunderstanding was more focused on my father and Admiral Hennessey. I cannot comprehend why they were so resolute in their hatred.”

“Everyone has to work within their own morality, my dear. Your father and Admiral Hennessey lived within certain boundaries that neither I, nor James, acknowledged. That is all.”

“And Lady Hamilton? Did she also live within those boundaries?”

This area was too delicate to tread heavily, so he said simply, “My wife was raised in a very cultured, very worldly house. She lived by her own rules, her own strengths.”

He hoped she’d leave it at that and as if hearing his non-verbal plea, she did. “I wonder what my father would think of my new friends.”

He went back to the settee and sat down. “You’re speaking of Miss Eleanor?”

She nodded. “And Mr. Manderly.”

“As much as I’d like to say to the contrary, it’s doubtful he’d approve of either.”

“But especially in regards to Miss Guthrie, yes?”

He nodded.

“But you neither approve nor disapprove,” she said. “At least, not that you’ve shown me.”

“That is because I am neither your father nor guardian.”

“But you are my friend?”

He nodded.

“Then as my friend, please advise me.”

He smiled. “You might only be on this island a short time. Any advice I give you would, in turn, prove unnecessary.” She wasn’t satisfied so he added, “While I advise you to decide for yourself, I want to point out that neither Mr. Manderly nor Miss Guthrie have had your advantages in life.”

“So I should pity them and therefore befriend them?”

He shrugged. “No. More that you should be aware of your own motivations. Pity and the need to right wrongs not caused by you can lead you astray if there is nothing deeper to depend on.”

She thought on that. “I don’t feel pity for Eleanor. I like her. She makes me laugh.”

He took her hand, noting she’d made no mention of Billy, thinking that friendships hadn’t worked so well for him, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t for her. He’d only had two friends stick by him; one was buried in a Charles Town graveyard and the other was off with the enemy, brokering peace.

He pushed away the startling thought that he’d just referred to his own countrymen as ‘the enemy,’ and said, “Just remember this: an acquaintance is one thing, but a friend is something entirely different. Pick the former casually, the latter carefully, treating both with respect and wisdom. In regards to Miss Eleanor, I urge caution; there is no small amount of tension between her and Captain Vane and I don’t want you caught in the middle.”

She nodded, then did something completely unexpected. She curled up next to him and put her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her unable to do anything else—she was such a dear thing.

They were still sitting that way when the door opened.

_Finally,_ he thought as his heart gave a great jump at the sight of first Eleanor and then James. He untangled himself from Abigail and stood to greet them.

“There you are,” James said, as he held the door open for Miss Guthrie.

“Where else would we be?” Thomas said mildly.

James was carrying a small mountain of wrapped packages, an empty flour sack and a satchel. He dumped it all on Eleanor’s desk. “I thought you were going to the house?”

He ignored James in favor of etiquette. “Miss Guthrie. I trust your negotiations went well?”

“Very well, indeed,” she said, removing her hat and gloves. “Though we experienced a standstill until a certain party arrived.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded towards James, now stuffing the packages into the sack.

“I see.” And he did—he’d been as surprised as anyone when James had agreed to accompany Eleanor and Vane to Harbor Island to meet with Rogers and Underhill. The fact that the meeting hadn’t ended in bloodshed was a point in James’s favor. “What happens next?”

“What happens next,” James interrupted, looking everywhere but at Thomas, “is that you leave this place. A tavern is no place for a young girl.”

Thomas glanced at Abigail. Not unexpectedly, she was frowning. “We’ve been here four days already,” he said. “Perhaps we might stay another few if we’re not putting Miss Guthrie out? Miss Ashe can have the room I’ve been using and I can find accommodations elsewhere.” He turned to Eleanor. “I’d like to hear more of your plans for Nassau.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to reply, but James interrupted rudely, saying, “No. I want you at the house where I can be assured of your safety.”

“May I remind you that it was at that house from which Miss Ashe and I were abducted not five days ago? The house might not be the safest place for us to stay for any length of time given its location and isolation and—” Thomas frowned. “And, what are you doing?”

“I’ve purchased some clothes and personal items for you,” James said, putting another package into the satchel. “Everything you own is falling apart.”

He touched the torn pocket of his waistcoat. “I don’t suppose the tailor at the Charles Town harbor had envisioned any of his patrons being kidnapped first by pirates and then the Royal Navy and then again by pirates when he secured these seams.”

Eleanor snorted but James just scowled. “Mr. Scott will be here soon. He’ll drive you to the house. I’ll meet you there either tonight or tomorrow.”

“And where are you off?”

“I need to oversee the _Walrus’s_ refit. The men will make a mess of it without me.” And then he was gone without a backwards glance.

“Well,” Thomas said, because he had to say something.

“He’s just frustrated,” Eleanor said, as she sat down at her desk. “Is that the letter you asked me to deliver?”

“It is.”

“I’ll have it on the next ship.” She put it aside. “And yes, frustration seems to be Flint’s only emotion these days.” She began sorting through the papers on her desk, pausing every so often to examine them closely.

“How so?”

“He had to make concessions with the _Urca_ gold.” She glanced up. “Charles insisted on an equitable split and James argued against it.”

Thomas frowned. “James is one of the most fair-minded men I know. I can’t imagine he’d want to keep more than his share.”

“He doesn’t. He had this notion to keep a portion in reserve so that the men could draw on it in times of need; a pirate bank, if you will. He knows the men will be broke in a month’s time and thought it the only way to keep them out of the poorhouse, if there even was such an item.”

He didn’t know what to say. It had been his plan, after offering the pirates a pardon, to furnish them with a reasonable stipend that would see them through their first year of transition from thief to farmer. He hadn’t gone so far as conceiving of a proper bank, but trust James to take a notion and make it better.

“I think it a good idea,” he finally said. “Perhaps he’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Well, he’ll have to use his own funds, if so. And he’ll be poor again once he refits the _Walrus.”_

“Is that what happens when a captain needs money? He just returns to the life of piracy?”

She looked at him as if he were a child. “It’s the usual state of affairs. But,” she sighed. “Flint is different; he’s always scheming so he might have a way out.”

He wanted to ask more but didn’t. It had come to him, listening to her, that she knew James much better than he. Which stood to reason—when the days were consolidated from years, he’d had James less than nine months. She’d had him for almost eight years.

When he’d first met her, he’d been surprised by her beauty. After he’d had a chance to talk with her, he’d been surprised by her manner. She was such a conundrum: delicate like a rose but prickly and coarse like a weed. If she had indeed been shipped to London as intended, she would have taken London by storm and might even have avoided the noose because Londoners were fickle. Until she gave them a piece of her mind; then, all would have been lost.

“Are you well?” Abigail asked. “Has your headache returned?”

He was touching his temple, an unconscious gesture he’d been trying to avoid. “No,” he lied. “I’m fine.”

“Dr. Howell will be visiting soon. Maybe he can help.”

They were interrupted by a soft knock and then the door swung open. Scott came in followed by Captain Vane.

If Eleanor had been a surprise, Charles Vane had been doubly so.

Covered with odd jewelry and markings on his skin, Vane’s long hair was plaited and knotted much like Thomas’s Indian friends. Vane never said much but when he did, his comments were sharp to the point of insolence. He was, however, quite intelligent as evidenced by what happened when they’d arrived at the tavern, that first day.

Before leaving to run an errand he said he couldn’t avoid, James had sent Thomas and Abigail off with Billy to meet up with Vane’s ship, the _Swift Jane._

When they boarded, Eleanor had rushed to Abigail and gave her a great hug. She introduced herself to Thomas and then asked Billy about her business. Billy had only gotten a few sentences out before Eleanor started swearing, threatening all manner of things to those who had taken her property, namely a man named Max.

Shocked at her vulgarity, Thomas had interrupted her after a moment, nodding in Abigail’s direction.

Eleanor had tightened her lips, but she’d held her tongue. She instructed Vane to ferry them to Nassau with all possible speed and then had commenced to pacing up and down on the deck.

When they got to the harbor, Vane had silently rowed them ashore, then escorted them through the town and into the tavern.

That was when Thomas realized that Vane’s cover didn’t match his contents for Vane jumped on a table and proceeded to make clear his objection to the change in ownership. His speech wasn’t long but he used words that were erudite, logic that was clever and insightful.

It was then Thomas had learned about the gold, it was then that he understood that the political and social structure of the town was unstable to say the least. It was then that he’d realized his own assumptions about the pirates of Nassau were compassionate but somewhat naive.

It had been a good lesson, that realization—he’d always preached acceptance of the actual person, but it seemed even he had much to learn. And, since practice made perfect, even now, he stood and gave each man a bow of the head. “Gentlemen. I hear your initial dialogues went well?”

Scott nodded but Vane strolled to a chair, saying, “His royal highness was in rare form. Being two days late to see to some fancy clothing? He almost fucked the negotiations before they even started.”

“Charles!” Eleanor said, gesturing towards Abigail who was looking down at her hands, her cheeks red.

“Sorry,” Vane muttered as he sat down, seeming not sorry at all.

“I understand you’re to take us to the country house?” Thomas asked Scott, wanting to soften the awkward moment. “Are we to go now?”

“I have the cart in the street. Captain Flint said we should leave before sunset.”

He turned to Abigail. “Well, my dear, shall we be off again?”

She bent and retrieved her portmanteau. “If we must.”

Eleanor got up and gave Abigail a hug. “Don’t be glum. Flint said you’ll be on the island this week, at least. I’ll drive out in a few days with my dressmaker and we can fit your new clothes.” She stepped back and held Abigail at arm’s length. “I was thinking to take you on a drive to see the island. Would you like that?”

Abigail nodded, a glimmer of a smile bending her lips. “Very much so.”

“Maybe I can solicit Mr. Manderly’s help. In case my cart gets stuck in the mud.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow but Abigail blushed and ducked her chin. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good.” Eleanor gave Abigail another quick hug, then let her go.

Thomas reached for Abigail’s portmanteau but Scott intercepted him, saying, “I’ve been instructed to handle all the heavy baggage.”

“I hardly think a bag that weighs ten pounds could be termed ‘heavy baggage.’”

Scott shrugged. “Captain Flint’s orders.”

“Better get used to his high-handed ways,” Vane said, giving Thomas an odd look over his shoulder. “It’s how he is.”

He frowned and said quietly, “Abigail will you please get your cloak?”

As Abigail fastened her cloak about her shoulders, Thomas glanced at Vane again. He was still watching, giving Thomas a look that could only be called a leer.

***

The main road of Nassau was more of a passage that twisted like a snake through the town. On each side were shops that sold everything from meat to clothing to weapons. There was no order to the maze of streets that he could see and the chaos was staggering. In no small way, it reminded him of London. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“Beg pardon?” Scott said.

“You told me that Miss Guthrie has plans for this place but I had no idea how difficult it would be to execute those plans.”

“What do you mean?”

They had just come abreast of another tavern and several inebriated men stood on the porch, arguing at the top of their lungs. Abigail stared at the men in fascination.

“I mean that London once was such a town but it took centuries to arrive at where it is today. Miss Guthrie speaks as if Nassau’s transformation will be achieved in a month. It makes my head hurt to think of the things that must happen before then.”

Scott nodded. “It will indeed be difficult. The gold will help,” he added doubtfully.

“The gold will make it worse. Because of it, the changes that will occur in the next months will be staggering. Eleanor must prepare for that.”

“Prepared or not, she will do what she wants.”

He smiled, remembering their earlier conversation about headstrong girls. “It will be a lot of work; she’ll need a lot of help.”

“She will have it. Captain Flint will help; he’s as invested as she in the success of the new Nassau.”

The cart hit a rough patch and he grabbed the seat rail as Abigail clutched his arm. “He’s staying here? Did he say that?”

Scott glanced at him as if surprised. “Where else would he go? This is his home.”

He nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

His tone was unintentionally bitter. Scott frowned and Abigail gave him a sideways glance. They said little more for the rest of the long journey.

***

Walking into Miranda’s house was somehow like walking into his own home and he removed his battered coat with a sigh. “What should we prepare for supper?”

“Captain Flint requested that I take care of the meal,” Scott said, carrying their baggage to the bedrooms. “I’ve fish and greens,” he added when he returned. “And there are potatoes from the garden.”

“Don’t you need to return to the ship?”

“I’ve been asked to stay here until you leave for Charles Town.”

He shook his head. High-handed, indeed. It was one thing to order a child and a crewman around, but a completely different thing to order _him_ around. “Abigail and I will help.”

Scott read the challenge in his tone and gaze, then nodded. “I’ll light the fire. If you and Miss Abigail will fetch the potatoes, I’ll get the fish on.”

“Only if you tell me what a potato in its natural form looks like.”

Abigail, watching the whole exchange, smiled behind her hand.

***

Supper was simple, but good. When they were finished, he insisted on cleaning the dishes because that occupation was quite familiar, thanks to his time at Bedlam. After washing the last plate, he wiped his hands and joined Abigail and Scott at the table.

Scott was repairing the stitching on his scabbard. Abigail was reading _La Princesse de Clèves._ It had been one of Miranda’s favorites. He nodded to it and asked, “What do you think of it so far?”

Abigail turned a page. “I’m not sure. Do we ever learn her name?”

“Never. She’s just called _‘_ The Princess.’”

She frowned.

“Does that disturb you?”

“I don’t know. It seems so…” She shook her head and looked up. “This book is about her but we don’t learn her name.”

“It’s an effective way of writing, but I agree, it makes her more distant.”

“And sad,” Abigail added. “She seems so sad.”

“Then,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “Find something else to read, something that will bring you joy, not sorrow.”

Scott looked up at that and drew a quick breath, drawing their attention, as well. “Until this second, I’d forgotten—” Scott said, going to the side table to search through one of the bags. “In all the commotion, I had forgotten something Dr. Howell had given me.” He got out a book and then handed it to Thomas.

It was very familiar, though he hadn’t seen it in years. He stroked the mottled brown calf cover and spine, the faint gold _Paradise R’gained_. He opened the book to the flyleaf. His inscription was still there, very faint in the middle of the blank page, _‘For my own Doubting Thomas.’_

“This isn’t from Dr. Howell,” he said softly.

Scott sat back down and picked up his scabbard. “No, it came from Captain Flint. I do not know where he got it.”

He nodded, taking a moment to swallow the memories the book brought, then glanced up at Abigail. “This might suit you better. Would you like me to start us off?”

She smiled and propped her chin on her hand, listening as he read:

_I, who e’re while the happy Garden sung,_  
By one mans disobedience lost, now sing  
Recover’d Paradise to all mankind,  
By one mans firm obedience fully tri’d…

_***_

Not unexpectedly, Abigail didn’t make it past book one. He caught her shoulder just as she dropped off at, _O what a multitude of thoughts…_ She jerked, blinking, and he suggested she go to bed.

She said goodnight and took a candle and went to what he now thought of as her room.

Scott had retired much earlier, saying he’d had a long day and he’d see them both in the morning.

Alone, Thomas closed the book and stood up.

He stretched, feeling every minute of his forty-six years. He’d never felt old before; did he look it? His mother—always remarked upon for her beauty—had always seemed youthful beyond her years. In counterbalance, his father had always seemed ancient, but perhaps that was because he rarely smiled.

Even when Thomas had been very young, he’d look at his father and wonder why he was always so unhappy. When he had asked his mother, she always said it was because his father was busy with important matters and had no time for frivolity. Now, he wondered if his father had ever been happy, had ever known a moment of joy. If he had, he’d kept it to himself, just as he’d had so many other things, such as affection and esteem.

The only things Thomas had ever had from his father were a home, an education and a place in society. He’d taken those privileges for granted when he was a child. When he’d entered the world as a man, he’d realized that as much as privilege helped, it also hindered. He’d worked at giving as he had been given, trying to find connections to his fellow man wherever he could, but even there his name and rank always came first.

Of course, the latter hadn’t held any meaning in prison and he supposed he should be thankful. Any leftover notions of his own innate superiority had been stripped away through the deprivations, filth and despair at Bedlam. In fact, it had been a blessing, in a way; if his father were still alive, he’d thank him for the object lesson in true humility.

If he were alive.

If James hadn’t murdered him.

His sense of balance, steady these past hours, faltered and the room tilted and grew close. He couldn’t breathe in this open, airy house and he went to the door and fumbled for the knob.

Outside, it was pitch dark. The only light available was from the pallid moon; he went to the porch and sat on the steps.

In the last four days, he’d thought of his father and James at least once an hour. Each time the knowledge touched the surface of his mind, he had quickly suppressed it. He had thought on something else, found a distraction or had just simply let his mind wander. He’d gotten awfully good at ignoring that which he couldn’t bear to think about but here in this place that held whisper-quiet echoes of Miranda, he couldn’t ignore the issue any longer.

_‘He cut them up so viciously, there was nothing left but two mangled corpses.’_

James had killed his mother. James had killed his father.

By accident or intent, he had boarded the ship his parents were on and killed them. Maybe he had offered them mercy which they declined, maybe his father had precipitated his own death by attacking James first—however it had happened, it had happened. Just as it had happened to Charles Town, though that might not be accurate as he wasn’t sure of James’s part.

He scrubbed at his face and then his hair wishing he could scrub away the knowledge of James’s animal brutality. If he were still taking his nightly doses of laudanum this pain would be a dull ache, easily dismissed. Even the piercing grief he felt at the thought of his mother in terror, in agony, would be only a passing thing.

How was he to get past this? His mother’s love had been the distant, cool sort but it was love. James’s love, on the other hand, had not been distant or cool; it had been furious and committed and real

So did the one love outweigh the other because the one was more personal, more valued? Was it not monstrous and wrong to assign a notion of worth to love? Shouldn’t love exist in one, inexhaustible space where every kind was equal to the next?

But if the latter was not true, if one love _did_ outweigh another, what was wrong in dismissing the inferior loves in favor of the better, the truer?

He sighed unhappily.

His thoughts were unraveling and he was having trouble making the connections he knew were there. The answer existed among all the twists and turns of logic, he knew it; but maybe that was the problem—maybe he was trying too hard to find a way to absolve James so he could continue to love James…

He got to his feet. He was too tired for this; he’d think about it in the morning.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Nassau_

 

It was a new kind of hell, he decided moodily, watching as Boyle, Morris and Pearce finished painting the _Walrus’s_ hull, smearing on the last of the black stuff with smooth, even strokes. Being here on this beach and not at the house with Thomas was a new kind of hell.

Much of the morning had been spent authorizing requisitions for timber, paint, munitions and goods. It seemed that every time he looked up, one of his men was in front of him, asking for money for supplies. Either that or it was a merchant offering the same, because the entire town now knew of the distribution and had descended on the beach, en masse.

It was chaos though everyone was happy and smiling, as if at a fair. Not him. He wanted to be gone, wanted to be wherever Thomas was, even if it was only to watch him from—

“Captain?”

He sighed and turned. And then sighed again because it was only Billy, striding across the sand.

“Yes?”

“You best get up to your tent,” Billy said, jerking his thumb towards the camp.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Silver. He’s making a scene.”

He frowned. “He’s still here? I thought he’d be long gone.”

“Me, too, but he’s up there, drunk as an emperor.”

“I’ve never seen him drink more than a mug of grog.”

“Same here. He’s making up for it now.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

***

The tent was only fifty yards from the careened ship but he was accosted six times by various merchants selling various things, all wanting to set up accounts for him. By the time he made it to his tent, his foul mood had turned ugly and he wanted nothing more than a fight.

It didn’t help, finding what was waiting for him on his cot. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Silver looked up at him and waved a bottle of rum. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

He waited a moment and when Silver didn’t say anything else, he said, arms outstretched, “Well?”

“It’s your fault, you see,” Silver mumbled, struggling to sit up. “I was fine on my own and then you go and fuck it all up.”

“What the hell—” He stopped, then leaned down and grabbed Silver and by main force, dragged him to the chest and sat him down with a thump. “Now, what the hell are you talking about? What is my fault?”

“The men. The _fucking_ —” Silver scowled and muttered, “The men are expecting me to stay. They’ve already voted me in as quartermaster again.”

He leaned against his desk. “I told you.”

“You did.”

“Then what’s the problem? Why don’t you just leave on the next ship bound for the Colonies or Port Royal? Why aren’t you on that ship now?”

Silver was shaking his head as if trying to shake away James’s words. Finally, he said, “I can’t.” He laughed and said it again, “I can’t. I tried; I booked passage on the _Resolute_ but at the last minute I changed my mind.” He shook his head one last time. “Why did I do that?”

“Because you don’t know yourself as well as you think you do. Because you don’t know what you want and you never have.”

Silver gave him a sour look. “You might be right, as painful as that is to admit it.”

“Up,” James said, gesturing for Silver to stand. “Go sleep it off somewhere that’s not here. When you’re sober, you can think about what it is you do want, what will make you happy.”

Silver nodded, then rose. He was a step away from the chest when he turned. “And you? Now that you have your heart’s desire, are you happy?”

James held perfectly still, then gave Silver a tiny crumb of himself, “No. Not even remotely.”

***

Thankfully, the last hours of the morning were free of disruption. He finished calculating the final costs of the refit, an amount so great it almost brought on another black mood, then turned his mind to his next venture.

Now that Rogers was on the island, now that pardons were being discussed, he wasn’t sure of his role, of his future. The Navy was still anchored off the tip of the island and still a threat. Very shortly, the men would need something to do, a new occupation.

When Hennessey and his men arrived at the first formal meeting, he had given James a quick glance, then ordered the removal of all criminals. Eleanor had stepped in, requesting to talk to Rogers alone. They returned a few minutes later and Rogers announced that the pirates, having an important part to play in the reconstruction of Nassau, would stay.

When James asked later, Eleanor said that one of her spies had come to her with the information that Rogers wasn’t as above board as he’d seemed. Apparently, he was in financial difficulties and Eleanor being Eleanor, had used that knowledge, bribing him with princely sum, and that was that.

James had enjoyed it, had enjoyed the look on Hennessey’s and Pickram’s faces. He’d also enjoyed their reaction to Charles Vane when he strolled in, late as always. Hennessey was so offended by Vane’s dress, that he could barely sit in the same room with him. It was a shame Teach had set sail the minute he’d delivered them from Hennessey. That would have been enjoyable, as well, seeing him parley with the Crown.

Of course, being asked to sit at the table didn’t necessarily mean one would be eating the meal. In a private aside, Rogers had made it quiet clear that he would listen to James’s opinions and would honor the safe passage agreement, but wouldn’t be offering him a pardon.

_‘This ends when I grant them my forgiveness, not the other way around.’_

He still held true to his vow but his determination had begun to waver. Like Silver, he wasn’t sure what he wanted now that he _had_ what he’d wanted. The gold had solved so many of his problems but not the main one, not the one that kept him awake at night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

If he had known Thomas was still alive, would he have gone to such extremes, committed all those crimes? He’d like to think the answer would be an instantaneous _yes,_ but knew himself well enough to admit it might be _no._

He was still brooding over the question when a shadow crossed the light. It was Eleanor, standing at the makeshift door. She seemed as out of sorts as he felt and he reached for the brandy. “You look as if you need this.” He poured her a glass and pushed it across the table.

She sat down and took a drink, then wiped her mouth. “I did.”

“How’s it going up there?”

“Charles is causing me a fucking headache, that’s how it’s going up there.”

“What is he on about now?”

“He’s insisting the money for the restoration of the fort come out of my pocket. I, of course, objected. We’ve been fighting about it all morning.”

“Why does he even care about the fort?” he growled, reaching for his own glass. “And, for that matter, why is he even interested in meeting with Rogers? I gave him a portion of the gold to get him the fuck off this island.”

“You gave him a portion of the gold because you were grateful that he saved Abigail and your friend,” Eleanor retorted sharply. “Don’t try to tell me it was any other thing.”

He muttered, unable to keep the spark of humor from his voice, “It was a moment of weakness.”

She smiled and then set her glass on the table. “I came to tell you some unpleasant news.”

“That’s all I’ve had this morning. What’s yours?”

“One of my spies just arrived from Port Royal. Apparently, Captain Hornigold and Mr. Dufresne are building a crew.”

He took a sip of brandy. “I haven’t heard anything from Stocks.”

“Perhaps he’s on the way to tell you the same thing.”

“Perhaps.” The news wasn’t a surprise though he’d hoped that Hornigold would do the wise thing and fade quietly into dim memory. Dufresne, on the other hand… “It seems those pardons from Hume weren’t worth the paper they were printed on.”

“I think they were legitimate but I think their hatred of you and me has superseded any kind of sense on their part.”

“What will you do?”

“My man is on his way back to Port Royal. He’ll report back to me when Hornigold has gathered enough men and a ship. What will you do?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. They can’t hurt me any more than they already have.”

Eleanor glanced down at her drink, then looked back up. “What about Lord Hamilton?”

He stilled. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Of course, you do.” She leaned forward. “Isn’t it time we stopped pretending I don’t know exactly who Thomas is and—Mrs. Barlow aside—what you are to each other? Lieutenant Pickram made it quite clear you were lovers. Or couldn’t you hear his pathetic mutterings the other day when he was asked to leave because he wouldn’t stay quiet?”

He stared at her, unwilling to give an inch.

She sighed. “Flint. I’m not telling you this because I intend to use this knowledge against you. I don’t care; no one around here cares. I’m telling you because I don’t think Thomas is safe on this island. You were always the one insisting the Crown was a foot away from our door and now that they’re here, you do nothing.”

“I’m not doing _‘nothing,’_ ” he said savagely. “I’ve been given assurances that they will not act.”

“And you believe them?” When he refused to answer, she made a little moué and added, “I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I know firsthand what kind of treachery England is capable of.”

“And they’ve been so honest and agreeable with Thomas and me.”

She actually blushed. “I’m sorry. I forgot for a moment that you have more reason to mistrust them than anyone.”

He wasn’t sure how much she knew and he wasn’t going to ask; but  maybe she was right and he admitted quietly, “I might have been a little too eager to take them at face value.”

“That is Charles’s never-ending refrain. Frankly, I expected the three of you to be gone long before now. Why are you still here?”

He downed his drink and stood up. “I need to get back to my ship and you need to get back to your headache.” He turned and left the tent, assuring himself that he wasn’t running away.

***

It took the crew all afternoon to give the _Walrus_ back to the ocean. James boarded soon after and reviewed the decks with DeGroot and Billy.

There was still much to be done but she was coming along. DeGroot’s team was busy looking for wormrot, though the hull had been repaired, the main mast had been refinished, the spars and planks restored where needed. Most of the sails and rigging had been replaced as had the blocks. In short, if it had to be fixed, he’d had it fixed.

“It’s good,” he said when they were back on deck. He looked up at the men on the yards. “Is the rigging crew going to be done anytime soon?”

Billy looked up as well, putting his hands on his hips. “They’re too busy talking about how they’re going to spend their share.” He took a deep breath and shouted, “Hey, you louts! Get back to it!”

“It’s to be expected,” James said, head still tilted. “They’re not being shot at, they know where their next meal is coming from and there are women within easy reach.”

“Speaking of,” Billy said.

“Yes?”

“A few of the men have questioned why we’re refitting at all. Now that we’re going to be offered pardons.”

Gossip being what it was, he’d been expecting this very question and if the men hadn’t been so dazed by the gold, they would have asked it sooner. “Because, that gold won’t last forever. They still need to work and that means either a field or on water. I think most will choose the latter.”

“Meaning?” Billy asked with a frown.

“Meaning,” DeGroot answered for James, “that that the _Walrus_ is turning legitimate. We’ll be carrying goods, maybe even people, and we’ll be paid for it.”

“A lot of the men won’t like that. Regular work, I mean.”

“Many will,” James murmured, thinking on his conversation with Thomas, all those years ago. How odd that then, he’d argued Billy’s point and now, Thomas’s. “Many will tire of the life and see it’s not a bad thing at all to go back to the land.”

Neither man said anything for a moment, and then Billy asked, “And you? What will you do?”

“Nothing,” James said, “if my desk isn’t back on the ship before nightfall.”

***

He ended up at the tavern that night.

He had spent the early evening half-heartedly mapping out the best routes that would bring the most cash. After realizing that he’d wasted an hour charting a course that would best bring him to Charles Town by the quickest possible route, he threw the quill and compass down and went on deck.

With his permission, Silver had given most of the crew leave and only a handful remained. Jean was on watch and he nodded to James as he climbed to the fo’c’s’le.

Nassau was celebrating. The shore was ablaze with bonfires; merchants had set up temporary shops near the beach and every tent was lit up. Hell, even the fort glowed from the torches limning the battlements. If he were the enemy, now would be the perfect time to take Nassau by surprise.

He got out his spyglass and gazed at the oblivious town, imagining he was doing just that—he’d place his shots _there_ and _there_ and _there_.

Not that he’d ever destroy the town that had given him so much. The fort was one thing, Nassau was something else. Even the plantations and the farms were important to him, and that thought led to another and like a compass pointing true north, he turned the glass east.

The house was some distance away, behind a series of low hills—even if it were surrounded with every bonfire on the island, he still wouldn’t be able to see it. There was no way to tell whether or not anyone was there, no way to tell if Thomas and Abigail were safe.

Eleanor had been right, Thomas had been right—why hadn’t he been more cautious? Never mind the Navy—anything could happen out there: a fall, a bite from an insect—there was a species of snake he’d seen frequently that delivered a nasty bite. It wasn’t fatal but it could cause a great amount of pain.

He should have put Thomas and Abigail on the _Black Hind_ before she had sailed and paid Lawrence to return them to Charles Town on the double. Why hadn’t he?

“Captain?”

He put the glass away and turned. Allen Lewis was standing on the deck. “Yes?”

“My watch is almost through and I was hoping to go ashore now.”

“Who’s your replacement?”

Lewis pointed to the dark figure on the stern. “Mr. Gam. He said he’d take the last of my watch. He don’t mind.”

Gam waved, as if confirming Lewis’s assurance. “Very well. Did Mr. Silver give you your orders?”

Lewis nodded vigorously. “I’m to keep my mouth shut, not spend all my loot, and for God’s sake, don’t catch any embarrassing diseases.”

James cracked a smile at the list. “Go on, then; be back by dawn.”

Lewis tipped his non-existent cap. “Captain.”

He watched Lewis hurry off and maybe it was the boy’s eagerness or his own sudden sense that the ship was too big, too lonely. Either way, he needed to be not here and he called out, “Mr. Lewis! Hold a moment!”

***

In contrast to the beach and the streets, the tavern was quiet. It was full up but the conversations were subdued. Though most of his men were on the beach, Billy, DeGroot and Hansford were in the corner.

On the far side sat Captains Naft and Lilywhite. The latter seemed to have come to terms with the changing political climate because he’d finally shut up about Eleanor and the subversive Guthrie empire. Judging by his sour expression, however, he wasn’t as happy as Naft, who was talking a mile a minute and gesturing broadly.

As usual, Eleanor was making the rounds with her girls; she nodded to him distantly, he nodded in return, then went to the bar.

He’d given his request to the barkeep when Eleanor came behind the bar and said, “I’ll take care of it.” He’d asked for brandy; she coolly poured him a glass of wine, saying, “It just arrived; you’ll like it.”

Dutifully, he drank it and yes, it was good. He acknowledged her choice with a small toast. “Thank you.”

She corked the wine and was about to turn away when he reached across the bar and grabbed her hand. “Eleanor.”

“Yes?”

“Your man, the one from the _Andromache?”_

“Ekene? What about him?”

“I was wondering…” He tipped the glass and watched the red wine stain the sides. “I’ve asked Mr. Scott to return tomorrow to give me a report, but I don’t want—

“To leave the house unprotected?” she interrupted matter-of-factly.

He nodded. “Miranda’s men are no where to be found and I’d sleep better if I knew there was someone nearby. I can’t ask any of my crew to do it.”

“No, you can’t.” She was silent a moment, then she put the bottle back under the counter. “Mrs. Archer’s house is still uninhabited. I’ll inform Pastor Lambrick that I’m using it for the time being. Ekene will stay there until Thomas and Abigail are gone.”

“I thought you and the pastor weren’t speaking to each other?”

She smirked. “He’s coming around now that my soul is being cleansed by British authority.” She picked up a rag. “And if that is your way of saying you were wrong and I was right, you’re welcome.”

He granted her point with a nod of his head, then took himself and his wine upstairs.

***

He switched to brandy an hour later and though he didn’t get soused, he wasn’t quite sober. At midnight, one of Eleanor’s men came by to rouse the drunks. He took one look at James, then nodded to Eleanor’s spare room, the one she kept for special guests.

He stumbled to the room and then the bed, falling onto the surprisingly thick but narrow mattress. He turned on his side and closed his eyes, trying not to think that the last person to have warmed the sheets was Thomas.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

Eleanor was better than her word and showed up the next day with a woman by her side, driving a cart loaded with tall wicker baskets.

Thomas and Scott were out in the garden tending to the weeds while Abigail cleaned the breakfast dishes. At least, Scott was tending—he had shown Thomas which were weeds and which were plants but it was hard to tell the difference. Everything looked the same and several times Thomas hoed up a weed that was actually not.

Still, it was agreeable and as he’d worked with growing contentment, he’d imagined Miranda at his side, laughing as he made mistake after mistake.

He was almost done with his row of carrots when he heard the sound of a cart coming up the road. He saw Eleanor and smiled and then smiled again when the door flew open and Abigail rushed out. She ran to the cart as Eleanor pulled the horse to a stop, saying something too fast and low for Thomas to hear.

Followed by Scott, Thomas propped his hoe against the fence, brushed off his hands and went to meet them. “Good morning,” he said. “This is a nice surprise.” He gave his hand to the stranger and helped her out of the cart.

“The morning was so fine, I thought a drive would be just the thing. I asked Miss Needham if she had time to see Abigail,” Eleanor said, jumping out of the cart before anyone could help her. She gestured to Thomas. “Mr. Martin, Miss Abigail Ashe, may I introduce Mrs. Edward Needham.”

“Mrs. Needham,” Thomas said, bowing over her hand. “I take it you’re the one that makes Miss Guthrie’s beautiful dresses? She is very fortunate to have you.”

Mrs. Needham was older than Eleanor with skin that had seen too much sun but her smile was lovely. “I’m the fortunate one. I don’t often get the chance to sew for someone who shows off my work so well.”

Eleanor was helping Scott unload the baskets and she laughed at the compliment. “I think that’s a chicken or the egg situation. Do the clothes you’ve made for me look well because I’m wearing them or do I look well because I’m wearing the clothes you’ve made me?”

Mrs. Needham brushed away the reverse praise and looked around. “I always wanted to come out here. I only ever saw Mrs. Barlow at church; she was such an elegant lady. Her loss is Nassau’s loss.”

It was an unexpected moment and he could only smile against the sudden pain and change the subject, “Are those baskets filled with fabric? Let me help you with them.”

***

The baskets weren’t all filled with fabric, though mostly so. Eleanor had brought more food, including eggs because she somehow knew the chickens weren’t laying, bread, flour and salted pork.

The rest of the baskets, however, _were_ filled with fabrics and trims and Thomas left them surrounded by silks and cottons, happy to see Abigail smiling with no dark shadows about her eyes.

“They’ll be at it for some time, I think,” he said to Scott after returning to the garden.

“It’s good to hear Eleanor laugh.”

“Is she always so focused? So driven?”

Scott nodded. “Ever since she was a child. I think it helped, her love of the island, after her mother died.”

He began hoeing, unsure what the plants were, but easily identifying the weeds. “Why didn’t her father send her back to London or at least the Colonies?”

“Why did he do anything?” Scott answered softly. “Because it was his will; because he did not care until it was too late.”

“You love her very much, don’t you?”

“She’s like a daughter to me; I’d do anything for her.”

“Mr. Scott?”

“Yes?”

“When you and I first met, before you really knew me, you accused me of being in league with Captain Flint.” He frowned. “I mean, with James.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You accuse me and yet you’re in his employ? Help me understand what is at work here.”

Scott didn’t answer for a moment, and then he said, “Captain Flint is not my employer, per se. I had joined Captain Hornigold’s crew and by extension, Captain Flint’s. But the one I am truly working for is Miss Guthrie.”

“I take it the plan you mentioned a few days ago has to do with the gold James found. Regardless of what I said yesterday, why do _you_ think it so dangerous?”

“Because, that much money has the power to make monsters of the most wise of men. Because, it will only bring more pirates, more criminals, to Eleanor’s door.”

“Not if Woodes Rogers has anything to say about it.”

“Mr. Rogers only just arrived; his proposal has yet to be implemented. Much can happen in that time.”

“I suppose you’re right but I still don’t understand how you rationalize working for Captain Flint, a man considered the most vicious pirate alive. You helped him achieve his goals.” Thomas shook his head. “How do you resolve that contradiction?”

“Are you asking for me, or for yourself?”

Thomas stopped hoeing and straightened up. Scott stopped as well and they stared at each other across a line of sweet peas.

“You’re right,” Thomas finally said, the weight of the answer like a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I am struggling with the same conundrum.”

“Have you found an answer?”

“No.”

“When you do, perhaps you will share it with me. In the meantime,” Scott added, returning to his row, “I will continue to wrestle with my dilemma.”

Thomas nodded and bent to his mystery plants. “I suppose it would help to consider that morality, in this place, is fluid.”

“Says the man who argued the opposite not a week ago.”

He smiled at the dirt and nodded, not unhappily.

***

After finishing with the garden, Thomas wanted a rest but equally wanted to be of help, so he asked Scott to show him how to tend to the livestock. The horse was easy but the cow was another issue. Try as he might, he could not get the hang of milking and he finally conceded defeat and returned the milking stool to Scott.

He returned to the house, walking in on a gale of laughter.

Abigail was standing in the middle of the room, arms out like a scarecrow, covered in yards of cloth of every color. Eleanor and Mrs. Needham were having turns draping more fabric upon her, laughing as they did so.

He watched for a moment, then said, “I take it you’re having a hard time making a decision?”

Abigail turned to him, laughing. “I made the mistake of saying I couldn’t choose.”

“And so I told her, she needn’t choose at all,” Eleanor added, draping a length of bright orange silk over Abigail’s head like a veil. “She’ll be the toast of London when we’re through with her.”

Abigail’s smile died to something more quiet. “I’d be happy with one or two dresses of the red silk and the aquamarine linen.” She carefully removed the orange silk.

Eleanor gave Thomas a startled look but just took the fabric. “No, you must be bold and have the Indian cotton and the French brocade. I insist.”

“What about footwear?” Thomas said, wanting to bring Abigail’s smile back. “A new dress is not complete without new shoes, or so I’ve been told.”

“Look in there,” Eleanor said, giving him a cautious glance, nodding to the large basket by the kitchen table.

He did as requested, surprised to find more than a dozen pair of shoes. He picked one up; the sole had the mark of a famous London cordwainer. He looked at Eleanor; she gave him a rueful smile that was more than a little ashamed. He put the shoe back. “Well, they’re beautiful. I think you’ll have another hard choice ahead of you.”

“They won’t all fit,” Abigail said. “And I don’t need them—my shoes are still useful.”

Stolen goods or no, he wanted her happy. “As long as Miss Guthrie has them, you might as well choose a pair.”

Her face brightened and she nodded.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“We were waiting on you,” Eleanor said with a smile.

“Then, Mr. Scott and I will fix something while you make your final selections. Perhaps we’ll eat outside.”

***

After their meal, he went out with his Milton, intending to read beneath the trees when he came upon Scott, saddling Miranda’s horse. “Are you off?”

“Captain Flint asked me to return to give him a report on Miss Abigail.”

“A report? What kind of report?”

Scott hesitated, then said, “I believe he is worried she would suffer from the effects of being abducted by the British soldiers.” He finished adjusting the stirrups and then swung up into the saddle.

He frowned. “He saw her only yesterday and did not inquire after her health.”

“Nevertheless, I have been asked to return to the ship. I will be back by nightfall.”

“I see,” was all Thomas could say and he stepped back to give Scott room to guide the horse through the gate.

“Where is Mr. Scott off to?”

He turned. Eleanor was standing on the porch, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“Apparently, James is worried about Abigail and has asked Mr. Scott to inform him of her condition.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow but just said, “Mrs. Needham wants to fit her patterns but she told Abigail about the new foal on the next farm over…” She smiled.

“And now Abigail wants to see it,” he finished for her.

“I, on the other hand, have seen many foals and will stay here. I brought my books with me in case I had the chance to work…” She gestured to the house hopefully.

“Of course,” he said, still thinking on James’s odd behavior. “If you don’t have a quill, I’m sure I can find you one. You can use the dining table.”

***

Even Milton’s beautiful words couldn’t engage him and after a time of not reading, he gave up and went into the house.

Eleanor had spread her things out but she wasn’t working. She was sitting back in the chair, chewing on her thumbnail and staring down at the papers and ledgers.

He put his down on the side table. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” she said absently. Then she sighed and looked up. “That is a lie. There are many things wrong, chief among them, my inability to formulate a plan to transition this place from one based on graft and corruption to one based on legal and profitable commerce. In all this time, I’d thought in terms of the broad, the future, but the present is proving very difficult.”

“I would think that the most easiest thing of all to organize and plan for.”

“It is not. For example, you can’t take away a man’s means of livelihood in one fell swoop and expect him not to revolt.”

“Not if you try to effect the change all at once. Not if you don’t offer a worthy substitute.”

“The only things these men value is money and lots of it. There is no substitute for that.”

He sat down across from her and picked up one of her documents. “I’ve found that men value power far more than money,” he said. She’d been listing her ideas, and had scratched most of them out. “They’re just not aware that power is what they truly want.”

“How do you mean?”

“How many powerful men— _truly_ powerful men—do you know?”

She tipped her chin up. “I’ve known a few.”

“No,” he said kindly but firmly, “you’ve known men with coin in their pocket or a knife in their hand.” He leaned forward. “True power is more than the ability to give an order to another. True power is quiet, assured. It provides the security of hope and the belief in the future. Because of that, it’s devilishly elusive, but once a man obtains it, it’s all he’ll ever want.”

She frowned. “Say I believe that. How am I supposed to convince not only an entire town, but all the businesses that support that town, that what they want isn’t really what they want?”

“By convincing them it’s worthless. By offering them something far more valuable in return.”

She stared at him for the longest time and he could almost see the wheels turning. And then she took a blank sheet of paper and a quill and pushed them towards him. “Show me.”

***

The shadows of the room were dark by the time Eleanor stopped writing. Abigail and Mrs. Needham had long since returned and were sitting in the corner, talking softly while they discussed the dress patterns.

“Well,” Eleanor said, rubbing the back of her neck with an ink-stained hand. “It’s not perfect or complete, but it’s a start.”

“You still need to decide how to divide the councils; that will take the plantation owners’ endorsements as well as the various entities within the colonies.”

“But it’s so much better than what I had envisioned. This will encourage a growth that’s natural and incremental instead of one that’s chaotic and piecemeal.” She reached across the table and clasped his hand. “Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.” It had been enjoyable, discussing and arguing the finer points of her proposal for Nassau. She had been right—most of her schemes had no chance of working and it had a been challenge to think around the obstacles. He felt invigorated and, at the same time, very tired.

“Are you returning to Nassau?” Abigail asked from across the room.

Abigail’s tone wasn’t quite fretful but nearly so and he quirked a smile at Eleanor and gently withdrew his hand. “Miss Guthrie has business to oversee. Perhaps you and I can drive out tomorrow and visit her.”

“Mr. Scott has the horse.”

He’d forgotten about that, forgotten that Scott should have been back hours ago. “Should we be worried about his absence?” he asked Eleanor.

“No,” she said. “Ship’s business never goes to plan. He’ll be here soon.”

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s night—I don’t like to think of you on that road in the dark.”

She looked out the window. “If I borrow a lantern, we’ll be fine.”

He frowned but didn’t press—she knew the island better than he and if she said she’d be fine, she’d be fine.

“Eleanor and Mrs. Needham can stay the night,” Abigail said, her morose expression replaced by one that was hopeful. “Please,” she added with growing animation. “There’s the spare bedroom and the little room in the back.”

“Both Mrs. Needham and Miss Guthrie have to return to Nassau,” he said gently. “They might have people that will worry.”

“No,” Eleanor said, quickly glancing at Mrs. Needham. “I told my staff I would be back very late. They will not be concerned. I’m not known for my punctuality,” she added with a smile.

“And I,” Mrs. Needham said. “Have only two cats waiting for me, my husband being out on the _Elizabeth’s Hope.”_

It was clear Eleanor and Mrs. Needham were only agreeing to appease Abigail but he could hardly argue without seeming a bore. “Very well,” he said quietly.

Eleanor stood up. “If we’re to stay, I’ll need to stable my horse.”

He picked up the lantern by the door. “I’ll help.”

***

He said nothing until Eleanor had led her horse into the stable. He watched, holding the lantern high as she examined the stalls and the troughs. “Miss Guthrie?”

“You’re worried about giving in to Abigail, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Does she seem the sort that would let any little kindness thrown her way go to her head?”

“No, but we won’t be here forever.”

“I understand. I’ll make sure I’m not too charming or agreeable.”

“Miss Guthrie—”

“No, you’re right. She belongs to a different sort; not our sort.”

She made to move past him but he caught her arm. “That is not my meaning as you well know,” he said gently. He waited until she gave him a short nod, then added, “I only meant that she just lost her father and she’s very unsure of herself.” He released her. “I would happily encourage your friendship if I knew it would have a chance of thriving but it won’t. She _must_ return to her life. She has decisions and choices to make. She can’t run away from them else she might regret it later on in life.”

After a moment, Eleanor nodded. “You’re right, of course. I know too well the results of being taken out of a childhood and thrust into an unknown situation.” She went to her horse and led him into the stall, then quickly removed his bridle. “One thing?”

“Yes?”

“If she decides to return to Nassau, once her estate is in order and she’s seen more of the world, will you try to stop her?”

He smiled. “No. I’ll even come with her, if she wants my company.”

“Good.”

***

Supper came and went and soon Abigail was running between the rooms, making sure Eleanor and Mrs. Needham had what they needed for the night.

Thomas made a show of reading his book but couldn’t help enjoying Abigail’s enjoyment. He knew she’d been educated in London and though he knew little of a young woman’s studies, Miranda had given him some idea of what went on. Learning, yes, but also things like singing, dancing and making lifelong friends. If Abigail had good friends, she had never mentioned them. Was she as lonely then as she was now?

He didn’t like the thought of her without confidants. She deserved as much happiness as she could find, and that would be a difficult quest if she were to return to Charles Town. Carolina was not London—there was very little society.

He was still thinking on the problem when he realized it was very late and Scott hadn’t returned. He put his book down, picked up a lantern and went outside.

It was still warm and the air smelled of jasmine and something not so pleasant; perhaps it was the hog in the next farm over. He walked down to path to the main road—there was no one in sight, just a long stretch of nothing. Suddenly uncomfortable, he backed up and returned to the house.

***

He was roused in the middle of the night by the sound of the front door closing. He got out of bed and went to the dining room. He found Scott removing his hat and coat. He gave Thomas an apologetic nod, which Thomas returned.

He went back to bed, only then realizing that his heart was pounding, fool that it was. With no clear reason or expectation, he’d thought James had come home, after all.

***

He woke late from a disturbing dream of trying to escape a small, cold room. He rose and got dressed slowly. The morning air was laden with a light fog and it somehow damped his spirits, making what was already low, even lower.

When he went to the kitchen, the women were at the table eating breakfast.

“Did everyone have a good night’s rest?” he asked in an attempt at some sort of normality.

“Eleanor was telling us about the time she got stuck on an island at high tide,” Abigail said with a certain amount fascination. “It sounds horrifying.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Eleanor said with a smile. “My father sent men to fetch me and I lived to tell the tale.” She gave Thomas a quick glance. “I’ve made coffee.”

“Thank you.” He went to the kitchen to get a cup. “Where is Mr. Scott?”

She shrugged. “He got in so late, I told him to go back to bed.”

He nodded. “What are the plans for today?”

Abigail rose and began to clear the dishes. “Miss Guthrie and Mrs. Needham are to leave at noon but Miss Guthrie suggested a walk to the beach. There’s a lagoon on the north side of the island that she used to swim in as a girl.” She set the dishes on the counter. “Can we go?”

He looked out the window; the fog was still thick and the idea of traipsing to a beach to look at nothing but white sounded beyond unpleasant. “It’s near ten, now,” he said slowly. “Will there be time if you’re to leave at noon?”

Abigail answered for Eleanor, “We could load the cart with the baskets. When we’re done, you and I could return to the house on foot while Miss Guthrie and Mrs. Needham continue on their way.”

“Perhaps I’ll stay here while you three enjoy yourselves.”

Eleanor got up and poured another cup of coffee. “I think you should go; the fog will burn off soon and the water is calm and especially beautiful; you might like it.”

He watched her for a moment, then said, “Very well; the beach it is.”

***

“You were right,” he murmured, pressing the palm of his hand onto the warm sand. “This _is_ especially beautiful.”

Before him, the lagoon spread out in a smooth expanse of luminous blue-green that darkened as it met the ocean. Shorebirds ran here and there on the fine white sand, calling out to each other as they searched for food. The entire beach was surrounded by tall palms and bushes that formed a kind of living barrier, providing absolute solitude and privacy.

Abigail and Mrs. Needham had knotted their skirts about their knees and were out in the surf, collecting shells. Abigail, as if transported back to childhood, darted in the same fashion as the birds, running all about as she spied shell after shell. He smiled at her enthusiasm, adding softly, “It truly is.”

“It’s too shallow for anything but boats and sharks avoid it. My mother first brought me here when I was a little more than a babe.”

He turned to her. “Pardon me for asking, but what happened to her?”

Eleanor shook her head. She’d unbraided her hair and taken off her shoes and stockings. “She died during a Spanish raid when I was six. She’d heard word the Spanish had landed and hid me away in a cellar cupboard. She told me not to come out until she called. When she didn’t, I went upstairs. I found her lying in the kitchen next to one of our servants. Mr. Scott discovered me there, staring at the bodies.” She looked up. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I don’t remember much of that day.”

He wanted to take her hand but didn’t. “That must have been a very difficult thing.”

She smiled. “It was.” She drew a deep breath. “But I survived.”

He picked up a handful of sand and squeezed it. “Survival is not enough,” he mused. “We need more than that, more than just living day to day in hopes of more.” He opened his hand and studied the minor hills and valleys he’d created with his fist.

“Thomas?”

“Yes?’

“I know about you. Who you are, I mean.”

“Who am I?” he asked absently.

Eleanor glanced at Abigail then stood up and held her hand out. “Come. Let me show you where I like to collect shells.”

“I’ll get sand in my shoes.”

“Take them off. Stockings, too.”

He hesitated, then stripped off his shoes and stockings, then his waistcoat and stock for good measure and left them in a pile.

The water was warm and clear. As they strolled towards the west side of the cove, he waded in up to his knees, watching his distorted feet sink with every step.

Eleanor waited until they were some distance away from Abigail before saying, “Sailors are notoriously loose-lipped. The men on the _Royal Sovereign_ have been on leave on Harbor Island and they have been talking.” She bent down and picked up an orange-tinged shell.

“I take it the _Royal Sovereign_ is Admiral Hennessey’s ship and that you have spies placed in the taverns?”

She nodded. “Everyone knows what happened, everyone heard and everyone is talking. Lieutenant Pickram made sure of that.”

He tipped his chin up. “Are you referring to my imprisonment?”

“No,” she said softly. “I am speaking of you and Flint.”

While he’d never spoken openly of his relationship with James, neither had he been ashamed of it. It had been a part of him, as natural as breathing. But to know that James’s name was being bandied about by Pickram was somehow different, somehow worse—

“Thomas?” Eleanor dropped the shell and stepped close. She touched his arm. “I’ve ordered my people not to speak of it. I told them if they repeat any of the gossip, they’re out of my employ and off the island.”

He put his hand over hers. “I appreciate your efforts, my dear, but I’m not sure that will make any difference at this point.”

“Nevertheless, my order stands.”

“Thank you.”

A piece of sea grass was stuck in her hair and he was reaching up to disentangle it when a harsh, “What the _fuck_ is going on here?”made them spring apart.

He turned, his heart lurching, his pulse racing.

James was standing some feet away, dressed for the sea with his long black coat and weapons. He’d been hurrying and was breathing hard, almost panting. Beyond, near the scrub foliage stood Scott, holding the reins of two horses.

“Jesus, Flint!” Eleanor said, hand to her breast. “You scared the hell out of me!”

James glowered. “I asked you a question,” he demanded, this time glaring at Thomas directly.

“What do you think we were doing?” Eleanor said, even as Thomas answered, “We were collecting seashells.”

James glanced down at their empty hands. “So I see.”

Movement caught Thomas’s eye. Abigail had come closer. She was standing at the edge of the surf, glancing between him and James, the happy light gone from her eyes. At her feet was a scattering of shells.

Somehow it was that one thing, that one tiny thing above all others, and he was all of a sudden angry. So very, very angry. “Eleanor?” he said calmly. “Will you please drive Abigail and Mrs. Needham to town? I’ll find Abigail there in the evening.”

James glared. “What do you think you are—”

“Mr. Scott?” Thomas called out, riding over James’s words with savage joy. “Will you attend them? Captain Flint and I need a word and I’d like to borrow your horse.”

Scott nodded.

James took a step forward. “Thomas, what the—”

“Eleanor?” he asked, coolly interrupting James once more.

“Of course, Lord Hamilton,” Eleanor said, suddenly formal. “Miss Ashe?” she called out, hand outstretched. “Let’s go.”

Abigail didn’t move.

Thomas tempered his anger and went to her. He held her shoulders, squeezing gently. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He and I just need to talk. I’ll see you tonight.”

After a moment she nodded. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She wasn’t smiling, but she no longer looked as if the world had just ended. He smiled encouragingly and let her go.

Eleanor took Abigail’s hand while giving him a speaking glance and tugged her away. Scott and Mrs. Needham followed.

“Well, then,” he said, striding past James. “Shall we be off?”

“Where are you going?”

“To get my clothes.”

“Where are _we_ going?

“To your house.”

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

The ride to the house was taken in stony silence.

Thomas had put on his shoes but not his stockings, waistcoat or neck cloth. It didn’t seem to bother him, his relative state of undress and James had to remind himself that he worked side by side with men regularly clothed in far less.

But it seemed wrong and he wished he had thought to give Thomas his coat. Of course, Thomas would have probably just told him to go to hell, he was that angry.

When they got to the house, Thomas dismounted, gave James a frosty glance as well as the reins, saying, “Take care of the horses. I’m going to wash off the sand.”

While James lost his temper at the slightest provocation, Thomas had always excelled at keeping his. In all the time James had known him, he’d seen Thomas lose control only a handful of times, the last being on the _James,_ though that had been due to the influence of laudanum _._ What did it mean, that Thomas was now so composed? It was almost as if he were alone or that James was a servant, doing what was expected of him.

The idea was disturbing, almost chilling, and he led the horses to the shady part of the paddock in a somber mood. Thomas had never been cruel or inhumane to his servants but he’d been brought up to treat the lower classes a certain way. The idea that he now might see James in the same light wasn’t a comfortable thought and when he went into the house, he had to stop himself from tiptoeing.

After the heat of the day, the house was pleasantly cool. He strode to the side cupboard and got out his best brandy. He’d had it for two years now, stolen from a shipment meant for the Governor of Massachusetts and had been saving it for a special occasion.

He was pouring a glass when Thomas came in from the bedroom. “Would you like some?” he asked without looking up.

“No.”

“It comes from France, meant as a gift for the—”

“James.”

He stilled. “Yes?”

“I don’t want any wine.”

He looked up. Thomas was standing in front of the hallway. He’d rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow and was holding his shoes. In the half-light, dressed as he was, he seemed otherworldly and fey, as if were a creature from some other sphere of existence.

“Very well,” James said.

Thomas pointed to the chairs. “Sit down.”

“I think I’ll stand.”

Thomas shrugged. “As you wish.” He set his shoes near the side table and took a seat next to the window. He clasped his hands together. “What is this all about?”

He took a sip of brandy, then said, “Your meaning?”

“You know very well. Why have you been avoiding me?”

It wasn’t the question he was expecting and the lie came easily, “I haven’t.”

“James,” Thomas sighed. “Lying does us both a disservice.”

“I’m not lying, Thomas. I’ve been busy.”

Thomas looked down at his hands as if searching for the answer James wouldn’t give him, then said, his voice dropped low, “I know finding me alive must have been as great a shock for you as it had been for me. When I found you hadn’t been murdered—” Thomas shook his head. “To say it was a surprise would be the understatement of the century, and therefore, I understand you’re still sorting it all out. I understand you’re grieving for Miranda.” Thomas looked up, his gaze and voice void of any passion. “What I don’t understand is why you have gone out of your way to ignore me. Why you can barely bring yourself to look at me.”

“Thomas—”

“Even now, you find that glass more fascinating than I, and it—” Thomas took a sharp breath. “Will you _look_ at me?”

James jerked his head up at Thomas’s tone, now biting, demanding.

“Why didn’t you come to me at Eleanor’s?” Thomas asked. “Why the week-long deception on your ship which in of itself was a lie?”

When James said nothing, Thomas added, “It hasn’t escaped my attention that you are wearing the ring I gave you, the ring that in the past, you refused to put on your finger for fear someone would know the giver. Does that mean anything or is just something you wear because it’s pretty?”

James went to the window and looked out; the chickens had escaped the coop again and were all over the yard.

“James?” Thomas asked quietly but this time tentatively, “What is this? Is there someone else?” He hesitated, then said, his voice returning to that same low tone, “Has your heart strayed from mine?”

The year before, Miranda had purchased a clock from Mr. Frasier. It was an overly ornate device that counted out the minutes with even strikes that could hardly be heard. In the absolute quiet that followed Thomas’s dreadful question, the clock’s movement sounded as if it were a ceremonial cannonade, one burst followed by another. Even the hall clock at Peter’s hadn’t been so—

“James?”

He couldn’t tell the truth but neither could he hurt Thomas with a lie and the confusion caught at his tongue.

“Well,” Thomas said evenly, sitting back in the chair. “It’s been a long time, after all.”

Released by his own anger, he clenched his jaw and turned from the window, snarling, “How can you think that? How can you even…” He broke off and slammed the glass down, brandy splashing over the table. “Everything I have done since that day, every _little_ thing, has been for you. I did it—”

He broke off and turned in a small circle, ending up where he’d been: facing the window. Something black was uncoiling in his chest, moving sluggishly as if just waking; he felt as if he were suffocating.

“Do you mean this house and Miranda?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean the plan to support the pirates via some sort of financial service?”

“Eleanor told you?” He began to twist the signet ring Thomas had given him, round and round and round. It was coming, the question he’d feared for two long weeks and there was nothing he could do to stop it, barring leaving the house altogether.

“She did.” There was a slight pause and then Thomas asked, “My parents? Were they one of the things?”

He tightened his grip so hard, the ring’s dull edge bit into the soft flesh between his fingers. “Yes,” he rasped out, because he wasn’t ashamed of that, he _wasn’t._

The silence had returned only this time it wasn’t filled with anything but the sound of his own breath.

“James?”

He stiffened. Thomas had risen and come up behind him, standing an arm’s length away.

“James,” Thomas said again, this time in a calm whisper. “I must tell you something.”

He nodded, unable to speak with Thomas so close. He wrapped his arms around his chest.

“Four hundred and thirty-seven,” Thomas whispered.

He frowned but didn’t turn. “What?”

“Four hundred and thirty-seven. That’s how many days I waited for you to come to me. I counted each and made a mark in the cell in which I was kept. Even on those days when I could hardly remember my own name, I counted. It was there where I learned—”

“Jesus, Thomas, don’t!” The black mass twisted and turned, spreading its foul grief and pain. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? Do you think I haven’t regretting every fucking—

Thomas touched his back, stopping his protest. “No. That is not why I am telling you this. I would gladly keep that information to myself to the end of my days if not that I need to explain.”

James was still wearing his heavy leather sea coat, but he thought he could feel the heat and pressure of Thomas’s hand.

“You see,” Thomas continued in that same whisper, “on the four hundred and thirty-eighth day of my imprisonment, I was delivered a letter. In it, my father told me that James McGraw was murdered by the pirate Captain James Flint.”

He bowed his head as the pain crested. So cruel; Thomas’s father had been so very cruel.

“When I learned that, my counting stopped and my life ended. I became a new person, a shell of a man that only saw the days as hours to be borne.”

One more step and Thomas was at his back. _Hold on,_ James told himself, _hold on—this will be over soon._

“But, James, when I found out you were still alive, I was reborn once more.” Thomas dropped a hand onto his shoulder. “I’ve had three lives and I’m wise enough to know I should have done things different with the first two but I won’t make that mistake with the third.

“What befell us was my responsibility as much as yours, perhaps more so. In my headlong rush to have my way, I ignored your warnings, Miranda’s advice. I know why you did what you did. I know why you killed my father. I should be stricken with horror and revulsion that you could do such a thing. I should want not to ever be near you again. I should feel all of those things and more, but James, the only thing I truly feel is relief that you’re alive. I can’t bring myself to care about the rest.”

“ _Thomas_ —”

“You hurt the man that hurt me, that hurt _us_. You spent over nine long years trying to achieve my dreams. I think more than anything, I am humbled by your devotion and dedication, so my shame is surely a match for yours.”

He shook Thomas off roughly, then turned, stepping back out of reach. Thomas was watching him steadily, thoughtfully. “And your mother?”

Thomas winced but his gaze remained clear. “I’ve found that shame is an all-encompassing, generous thing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, but it’s the only one I have. I can’t think about her right now and I’m asking you to accept that.”

He nodded, as much as he wanted to end this, he was unable to truly hurt Thomas. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t wound him and he hesitated, needing a moment to prepare his next blow. “It wasn’t just them, Thomas. I’ve killed many men.”

“I know.”

“One was a friend,” he said, enunciating the words with sharp clarity. “It was necessary, but he was a friend.”

Thomas’s expression somehow deepened and he reached out and touched James’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thomas, who I am now, _what_ I am now—” He shook his head, shaking off Thomas’s touch. “It’s impossible. You and I are impossible.”

“Why?”

“I killed your father and I was happy to do it. If he were standing before me, I’d do it again. That should prove to you that I’m too far gone. They call me a monster and they are right. I’ll be hunted until the end of my days for what I’ve done and I think that is right, too.” He almost smiled, the words coming easily now that he’d found a new direction, a new location to place his sword. “What kind of life would that be for you? Always looking over your shoulder, always—”

“Stop!” Thomas said with a quick motion of his hand. “Did you say the same to Miranda? Did she actually believe you?”

He froze, caught in his own trap.

Thomas, as if sensing this new vulnerability, pressed his own advantage. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Did you actually think I’d be fobbed off by such a childish argument?” When James said nothing, he added, “I know the risks as I’ve always known the risks when it comes to you. You are worth it, James. Everything I went through, everything that has happened since, it was all worth it. Tell me you can’t say the same.”

Once again, he hesitated, this time too long and Thomas stepped close. “We’ve been here before—remember? Only that time you were young and unnerved. You’re no longer that man; you can make your own choices based on your own needs.”

Anger vied with shamed outrage because as much as he hated to admit it, Thomas was right—that night at the Pierson’s had been the start of a long journey, one that wasn’t quite over, though it couldn’t matter, not now.

He was struggling with the words to say just that, to find some way to convince Thomas that despite what either of them might want, this was how it had to be when Thomas took the metaphorical reins from his hands.

With a twist of his lips and a frustrated sigh, Thomas touched his arm, then bent and kissed him.

It was light, the kiss, hardly more than a press of mouth on mouth but it shocked him out of his indecision. He shoved Thomas away with a strangled, “ _Don’t!_ ”

“So, I’m not to ever touch you again? Kiss you again?” Thomas asked, as if in disbelief. “Very well, I’ll call your bluff.” He straightened to his full height, challenge lighting his eyes. “Tell me you no longer love me, no longer desire me, and I’ll leave this island with Abigail and never come back.”

He clenched his jaw, holding on to the anger as he forced the words, “I don’t, not any more.” The black thing in his chest howled in triumph.

“I see,” Thomas said after a moment in a voice gone dull and flat. “I see.”

Thomas bent over, moving slow like and old man. “It’s odd,” he said, “but I feel I’ve been waiting for you to come to me for what seems a lifetime though it has only been days. In all that time, I never once considered that as much as I loved you, as much as you loved _me,_ it wouldn’t be enough.” He gave a little laugh that wasn’t anything approaching humor. “I suppose it’s the way of things. After all, you didn’t ask me to return from the dead.”

Thomas turned to the hall and the room around James seemed to brighten and shift, as if the world had just shivered, exposing the cracks of another place, another moment. He remembered an argument, words tossed about the room, sparking like fire:

_What are you talking about, what voice?_

and

_‘The one telling you to be ashamed for having loved him.’_

and

_‘…what he shared with you it was entirely something else. It’s time you allowed yourself to accept that…’_

_“That’s not true.”_

Thomas stilled, one hand on the wall. “What?”

“That’s not true,” James said again, the words once more cutting his throat like shards of glass. “Every night for weeks and weeks after they took you I prayed for your return, for your father to come to his senses. I _begged_ for it!”

Thomas’s hand curled to a fist, as if he wanted to claw at the stucco.

“But you didn’t return. You left me in the cruelest way possible.”

Thomas turned his head, just enough to see his profile. “You were angry with me.”

Not a question but he ground out, _“Yes!”_ as the black thing burst free, burning his tongue and lips. “Yes,” he repeated, this time much softer. “I was going to gather an army and come for you but—” He shook his head. “I’d barely got started when I heard the news.”

Thomas turned, resting against the wall as if for support, as if James’s words had weakened him in some intrinsic way. “I didn’t know.”

He couldn’t speak.

“I would never have done that to you. I thought you realized that.” Thomas tipped his head back against the stucco. “If my father had never announced the false report of my death, where would we be now? Who would we be now?”

Tired as if he’d just spent the last two weeks without sleep of any kind, he answered in a gravel-like voice, “I don’t know.”

“James.”

He looked up.

Thomas was staring at him, his face pale, his eyes wet. He didn’t cajole or curse or anything like it—he just held out his hand as if drowning.

Enough, thought James, _enough_ , and he strode across the room and was up against Thomas, taking his mouth in a kiss that hurt without hurting.

“James.” Thomas dropped his shoes and grabbed onto him, saying against his lips, “ _James.”_

Thomas tasted of blood and heat and he wormed his hand around Thomas’s waist, his knuckles scraping on the wall. It wasn’t possible to get close enough, to kiss hard enough though he tried, biting at Thomas’s mouth and tongue, wishing he could meld his body with Thomas’s and never ever leave, the moment crashing like a great wave as love, desire and grief washed his mind clean…

This was what he’d been wanting, those first nights with only Miranda by his side, feeling as if some part of him had just been amputated with a dull saw, just this…

As in all things, the moment crested and then passed. He  made his lips soft, kissing the small bite mark on Thomas’s lower lip in apology, withdrawing only so far as to lay his head on Thomas’s shoulder, exhausted, enervated, exhilarated.

They stayed there, up against the wall as if beached. Thomas began to stroke his hair, smooth caresses that he remembered so well, made more poignant because his hair was now so short.

“I’m sorry,” he said surprising himself.

“What for?”

“All this…” He rubbed his cheek against Thomas’s shoulder through the course linen. Thomas smelled of salt and smoke. “I wanted you to be safe. I wanted to do what was best for you.”

“And did you learn your lesson?”

“I did. What is best for you is me.”

“And I for you.” The tempo and pressure of Thomas’s caresses changed and he ran his hand over James’s neck to his back. “James?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s best for me is down the hall and to the left.”

He smiled against Thomas’s shoulder. The black anger and anguish that had been living within his soul had left a cavity, now filling with a wild joy. He reached for Thomas’s hand and kissed his palm reverently. “Then, come.”

***

He led Thomas down the hall, unwilling to relinquish his hand for even a moment. When he got to the bedroom, he wasn’t surprised to find Thomas’s clothes in a shambles on the cabinet and washstand. He smiled, thinking to remark on it when he had a sudden thought that quieted the joy—this had been Miranda’s room, Miranda’s place. She would have wished them happiness, he knew it, but she was dead and it had been his fault even though he had—

“How does all this come off?”

Thomas was examining his belt and scabbard. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were narrowed, another thing made long familiar over desks and tables while they’d discussed the issue of Nassau, all those years ago. “Here,” he said, taking Thomas’s hands, dismissing thoughts of Miranda for the moment. “I’ll show you.”

He made a slow game of it, first his coat and then everything else, instructing Thomas on the buckles and the buttons and the ties until he was standing in the middle of the room, naked except for his rings and earring.

Thomas examined him, slowly, thoroughly, running his hands over his shoulders, arms and back. “When did you get this?” he murmured, touching the thin scar on his shoulder.

“During my first haul.”

“And this?” Thomas stroked the ragged ridge that curved down to his groin. “That must have been painful.”

He sucked in his belly, his cock twitching at Thomas’s cool touch. “I got it when we took the _Providence_ and yes, it hurt like hell.I got this…” He pressed the scar on his right thigh. “…at the same time.”

Thomas brushed the newest scar, the one that ran across and under his right breast. “And this?”

“Three weeks ago while taking the Man o’ War.”

“James,” Thomas said sorrowfully. “It is a wonder you survived. I must thank God the next time I’m in a church.”

He hadn’t thanked God for anything since the day Thomas was taken from him but now he felt the need to bow his head and do the same. He slipped his arm around Thomas and held him close, reveling in the feel of Thomas’s clothes against his bare flesh. “I’ll go with you.”

Thomas kissed his neck. “James?”

“Yes?”

“When are you going to ask?”

“Ask what?”

“About Bethlem?”

He stilled. “I want to know it all but perhaps it’s better for another time.”

“Because you’re afraid of what you might do?”

He nodded. “I hate them all for what they did to you. When I think on it, I—” He had to stop himself from clenching his hands, from holding too tight. “When I think on it, I want to get on the nearest ship, travel to London to lay waste to that fucking prison, so clearly, I need time.”

After a moment, Thomas nodded shortly. “Then time you shall have.” He looked down at James’s mouth. “Where were we?”

“You were kissing my neck.”

With a small smile, Thomas obliged and James’s sadness and easy anger were gone, replaced by a jolt of lust that coursed through his body like a stream of fire. He gathered Thomas’s shirt and shoved it up even as he guided Thomas towards the bed.

They fell in a tangle of limbs and cloth. Thomas was laughing when James freed him of the shirt but his laughter died when James ran his hand down his chest to his belly to the waistband of his breeches.

He slipped his hand underneath, searching, feeling nothing but crisp hair. Thomas arched, head back. “ _James,”_ he breathed, reaching down to cover James’s hand with his own, to push his hand further under.

Kissing whatever part of Thomas met his lips, he pulled free, then unfastened Thomas’s breeches. “Lift up.”

Thomas obliged once again, raising his hips to allow James room to fumble with impatient fingers for the buttons of his smallclothes. It took a moment as his fingers were uncooperative and then he was done. He tugged and discarded the clothing over his shoulder, for once not caring about the mess.

He sat back on his heels and looked.

The last weeks seemed to have happened over the span of a month, each minute an hour, each hour a day. In that time, he’d done everything he could to divert his mind from Thomas, willing himself to focus on the task at hand—no fantasies, no memories. The few times he was in Thomas’s presence, he’d only allowed himself quick glances, sly peeps as if Thomas were the sun and to look at him too long would be to scorch his eyes and soul.

But now he looked his fill, examining Thomas from head to foot.

Except for his face, throat and hands, Thomas’s skin was as pale and fine as ever. His muscles were still long, still lean, but without the defined gloss of before. Longer than he’d ever seen it, Thomas’s beautiful hair was also subdued, its gold-bright gleam more of a mundane flax. Around his wrists and ankles were faint marks and it took James a moment to realize what they were.

Slowly, he reached down and touched the thin ragged lines around Thomas’s ankle with his fingertips. “They chained you?” he asked, his voice broken. “They—?”

He leaned over Thomas and examined his wrists. The scars here were thicker, meatier, as if Thomas had been forced to wear manacles for months, not days. Sick with anger, he went further up, touching Thomas’s throat, finding more tell-tale signs. These were a rough inch apart and slightly raised; he could easily see where the collar had rested. “God _damn_ them,” he growled weakly.

“Don’t. It was a long time ago.”

“ _Thomas—_ ”

Thomas stroked James’s thigh. “It’s over. Don’t give them anymore of your concern. Please.”

He sat back again and lifted Thomas’s foot, pressing his lips against the scars around his ankle, then again to give himself time to regain his composure. “For you, I will.” He ran his hand under Thomas’s leg to the back of his knee, bending close to kiss the sharp line of his shin and the inside of his knee. “Only for you.”

He would have gone further, from knee to thigh, but with a soft groan, Thomas wrapped a leg around his waist and tugged.

He came to Thomas, stretched upon his warm body, a match to his own.

Just as he remembered, he thought as he kissed the sweet hollow at Thomas’s throat. Thomas was just as he remembered. _This_ , moving down to the shallow furrow that bisecting Thomas’s breast, and _this,_ his lips finding a nipple. He bit gently.

“James,” Thomas murmured on a hitched breath.

“It’s been so long,” he whispered. He ran his hand down Thomas’s chest to his belly and then to his cock. Thomas wasn’t hard but that was to be expected, wasn’t it?

“James?”

“I never thought I’d have this again.” He let go, reaching back up to hold Thomas’s arms, holding on too hard, but that was to be expected, as well, wasn’t it? Everything he was feeling was blending together again, a confusion of want and need and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do first, wasn’t sure—

“James, please.”

“What is it?” he answered, distracted by Thomas’s lower lip. He’d always loved Thomas’s mouth and the clever things he managed to—

“Stop—”

Before he could raise his head or ask _‘What?’_ again, Thomas had shoved him, pushing him so forcefully that he went sprawling, almost falling off the bed.

They stayed there, both frozen, Thomas half-sitting up, James on his side near the foot of the bed.

Thomas was panting, eyes wide, every muscle in sharp relief. His upper lip and forehead were shiny with sweat as if he’d just run a great distance.

James was the first to recover. “Thomas?” Just a few days ago he’d been worried that Thomas would never recover his strength; at least that was a worry put to rest; he was probably going to have bruises of his own. “What is it?”

Thomas closed his eyes and fell back to the bed. He covered his eyes with his arm and sighed, “ _Damnation._ ”

He drew a breath to ask what the hell was going on, then let it out again.

He knew what this was and he should have expected it, watched for it. In all the commotion of the past week, he’d forgotten his own concerns and Abigail’s worries. But, yes, he knew what this was.

‘ _This man seemed to have hurt him in some way.’_

Once, as a midshipman while serving on the _Carlisle_ , he’d come across a boy of about twelve sneaking off the _Deptford_ in the dead of night with nothing more than a loaf of bread and the clothes on his back.

At the time, James had been in a hurry to get to his billet, having just finished his middle watch. He was hurrying along the quay, thinking only of sleep and breakfast at the Olde Bull when he almost tripped over the boy. The boy tried to run but James grabbed him, taking him by the shoulders to berate him for attempting something so stupid as desertion. He’d only spoken a few words when the boy began to shake, trembling so hard his teeth actually chattered.

James had looked around, then took the boy by the collar and marched him away from the docks. The only tavern he could find still open was one a boy so young shouldn’t patronize but he took him in anyway, choosing a table off to the side. He got the boy a mug of chocolate and pressed it into his hands. After a moment, the boy stopped shaking and when James asked him to explain, he did.

Unwilling to give his name, he said he was one of the sailing master’s mates on the _Deptford_ , only the master used him for things other than the normal tasks required by the Navy.

It was a common enough story and James only felt sympathy until the boy mentioned the cruel things the master did when he was drunk. Rape was the least of it and, sickened, he promised the boy he’d see to it that the master never sailed again. The boy began to cry and James, thinking to offer comfort, reached across the table to pat the boy’s hand. The boy had blanched and started shaking all over again, only this time he retched, spewing up all the chocolate he’d just drunk.

Careful to keep his distance, James had cleaned the boy up and convinced him that his life would be far better off back on the _Deptford_ than forever on the run. The boy nodded, thoroughly dejected, and James walked him back to the docks.

The closer they got to the _Deptford_ , however, the more the boy dragged his heels. When they stood before the plank, the boy looked as if he were being taken to the gallows. It was all James could do not to hug the boy, though he’d never been one for casual embraces. Once more, he promised that he’d take care of the problem and then, thinking to give the boy some encouragement, lightly touched his shoulder. The boy flinched and stumbled back as if James had slapped him. James apologized, repeating his promise. The boy nodded and without a word, turned to hurry up the plank.

Later that morning, after trying to find sleep only to fail, James tracked the sailing master to a dirty tavern off Rosemary Lane. On the pretext of answering a non-existent insult, he had beaten the man within an inch of his life. Kneeling, he’d wiped his bloody knuckles on the master’s shirt, advising in a whisper that a new profession was in order, and then left, scowling a warning to the other patrons not to follow him.

The _Deptford_ weighed anchor that afternoon and James asked around, happy to hear that the sailing master had disappeared and that Captain Robins had already found a replacement.

He’d thought of that incident many times in his life. He’d wondered about the boy, about the sailing master. He’d wondered why the boy’s reaction had been so extreme, considering he was out of harm’s way. Over the course of time he’d realized that events, especially the horrific, traumatic ones, tended to dig deep within one’s soul to the point they never let go.

The memory of the boy fresh in his mind, he started to reach for Thomas’s knee, then thought better of it. He got off the bed and retrieved his shirt. He pulled it over his head, then picked up Thomas’s clothes.

He went to the bed as if he were approaching a faulty grenade, unsure if the slightest touch would set if off. “Thomas? Sit up for a moment.”

Thomas looked at him, at the shirt in his hands, then sat up. He let James pull his shirt on him but pushed the breeches away when James held them out. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“You didn’t—” _frighten me,_ he started to say but that was a lie. He tossed the breeches to the chair and then tugged the sheet up over Thomas’s legs. “I don’t remember you being quite so strong,” he said, mostly to make Thomas smile. When Thomas ignored his jest, he asked quietly, “Was it Peter? Did he force himself upon you in any way?”

Thomas frowned. “Of course, not. Well…” He shrugged. “Not in the way you are meaning.” He leaned against the headboard. “He asked many times but always took my refusal with good grace.” He glanced at James. “I never told you because I never thought on it. Peter and I were at school together.”

James swallowed the bitter gall at the idea of Peter touching Thomas with anything approaching passion. “You were lovers?”

Thomas straightened the sheet, smoothing it out. “No. We were just schoolboys playing at it. It meant something to him and not enough to me.”

He nodded, remembering the evenings the three of them spent finalizing Thomas’s plan, the little innuendos and dark looks that Peter had thrown his way. At the time, he hadn’t thought it anything other than Peter didn’t appreciate working with the lower classes, but now…?

“James?”

“Yes?” The harsh afternoon sun highlighted the fine age lines that ran across Thomas’s forehead and bracketed his mouth.

“Please, come here.”

“Are you sure?”

Thomas gestured imperiously, impatiently, and James got back into bed. He let himself be arranged, sitting next to Thomas, their shoulders touching.

Thomas took his hand. “Does it bother you, the idea of Peter and I?”

“Of course, not,” he said, lying through his teeth. “I’m bothered by the fact that you have nightmares where you cry out; that you can’t stand to be in a room with no windows and must have one open at all times.”

Thomas frowned, his eyes going to the open window. “I have nothing that disturbs my sleep.”

“Abigail has heard you. It has been worrying her.” She had told him the day after they’d arrived, actually letting slip that she herself was still having trouble finding a good night’s rest.

“And if I cannot stand to be without fresh air,” Thomas went on as if James hadn’t spoken, “it must be because of the long confinement at sea.”

“You were on my ship for three days and probably on the _James_ for no more than two. That’s hardly a ‘confinement.’”

“Then, it’s the discontinuation of my laudanum. Perhaps the very lack of it is disrupting my rest.”

“It’s been almost two weeks since you had any. Howell says you’ve recovered.”

Thomas cocked his head. “And how would he—or you, for that matter—have that information?”

James glanced down.

“I see.” Thomas pulled free and wrapped his arms around his knees. “You’ve been spying on me.”

He could make excuses, but wouldn’t—he was done with those where Thomas was concerned. “I have,” he said plainly. “I hope you understand why.”

Thomas frowned but said nothing.

He touched Thomas’s back, very lightly. “You can hate it all you like, Thomas, but I’ll do what I must to ensure your safety.”

“I don’t need a caretaker, James,” Thomas said quietly. “I’ve had more than my share.”

“I am not trying to be.”

“Then, what is this?”

He hesitated. “When you were first on my ship, you were at times delirious. Do you remember?”

Thomas shook his head slowly.

“You talked of many things, a man, in particular. I’d assumed you were referring to Peter, but now…” Carefully, he laid his palm flat on Thomas’s back. “Who was it?”

Thomas turned his head and gave him a long, charged look. “Not ten minutes ago you didn’t want to know.”

“Not ten minutes ago I was a complete ass. I want to know, now.”

Thomas actually smiled, though weakly. He sat back against the headboard. “What good would it do? It’s all in the past.”

“It’s not in the past if you’re reliving it.”

Thomas thought on that, then said, “I haven’t told a soul. Now that it’s before me, I’m not sure I can.”

“Then, here…” he said, gently guiding Thomas down to rest against his chest. He pulled up what covers he could, then ran his fingers through Thomas’s hair and kissed his forehead. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning is always a good place. Start there.”

***

In a strangely impassive voice, Thomas talked. Long into the afternoon, he talked. About being forcibly dragged out of his father’s home by four men and plied with laudanum and spirits until he lost consciousness. About waking up to find he’d been chained to the wall in a small, dank room, his hair shorn to the root, wearing rough, unfamiliar clothing. About being visited by then-Governor Murrey who had informed him that he’d been arrested on charges of gross indecency and conspiracy to commit treason.

He’d fought, of course, insisting on his rights and liberties only to be told that he had no rights, no liberties. He’d been so vocal, so adamant, that he was prescribed laudanum as a measure to calm his mind.

Lucid only part of the time, he spent the following days and weeks patiently waiting for his father to see reason while hatching scheme after scheme. Finally, months after his abduction on a day spent outside as a reward for obedience, he’d been given a two-month old letter from his father.

James listened just as impassively, making no move to touch Thomas other than a slow stroke here and there. He maintained his composure when Thomas told him of the forced druggings, the lack of warm clothing and of the sewage that was always backing up, of the packages of food sent by his father’s steward that only sometimes arrived on time.

He even maintained his composure upon hearing of one Samuel Jenkins, the man paid by Alfred Hamilton to ensure his son’s cooperation. Jenkins’s favorite pastime had been terrorizing the inmates, especially the gentry and while he’d never abused Thomas physically, he’d done the next best thing: he’d taunted him with his crimes and terrorized him by assaulting the men in the nearby cells, calling out that when he was done with them, he was coming for Thomas.

But when Thomas spoke of the letter and his reaction, how he finally broke down with uncontrollable grief at the news of James’s supposed death, James began to weep as well, hot, bitter tears that stung his eyes. In the past, he would have answered such a moment with violence but now he just caressed Thomas’s hair with a hand that shook and said in a voice hoarse hobbled with fury, “I am so sorry. I am so very sorry—”

Thomas glanced up, his own expressionless face changing when he saw James. He reached up and cupped James’s jaw, kissing his lips, then eyes. “I am not telling you this to cause you any sorrow. If you want me to stop, I—”

“No,” James interrupted, wiping his eyes before covering Thomas’s hand with his own. “If you can bear it, then so can I.” He kissed Thomas’s palm. “I’m amazed you lasted as long as you did. The cold baths, the public viewings—I would have broken long before you.”

Thomas gave him a skeptical look but only said, “I was well under the influence of the laudanum by then. Without it, I would have gone truly mad.” He rested his head against James’s shoulder again, adding, “I did, for a while.”

“You did what?”

“Go mad.” Thomas edged closer into James’s embrace. “In between the doses of laudanum, I had disquieting moments of clarity and I questioned everything; my belief in God, in myself, the things I had accomplished, the things I hadn’t… None of it made sense in that place. The only constants were you and Miranda; the memories of you both kept me sane, few though they were.” He sighed, his breath warm on James’s skin. “Even now, when I meet the edge of that abyss, I think of you and that helps me back away.”

“You’re not mad.”

“Are you sure of that? I have felt not myself of late. Maybe when one is mad, one doesn’t know it.”

Thomas’s tone was conversational, as if he were speaking of the weather and a chill went up James’s spine. “I’ve seen the effects of laudanum. I know how it can twist a man’s mind. I have also seen the mad, the sincerely mad, and that is not you.”

Thomas had looked up and was watching him with eyes that were too serious. “Back in London they all thought I was mad; I heard the whispers.”

He remembered, _‘Is it possible that he’s fully mad? Half of Whitehall whispers it,’_ then gripped Thomas’s hand and pressed it to his chest. “You aren’t or weren’t, my love; you were simply ahead of your time. Remember: _‘Damnant quod non intellegunt.’_ ”

Thomas’s gaze had narrowed. “Is that what you truly believe? That my ideas were simply too advanced for my peers?”

“You know I did—I argued you that point long enough.”

Thomas nodded, the eerie calmness fading slightly. “Yes, you did.”

“It took time, but I came to understand that you think differently than the rest of us. I knew it, Miranda knew it. Hell, even your father knew it and I’d lay odds it was the main reason he’d had you committed. Not because of this…” He brushed Thomas’s chin with his thumb. “He saw his chance to solidify his position with Whitehall and he took it.”

Thomas gave a great sigh. “Thank you.”

“You have no reason to thank me. I should have acted immediately.” He’d never tell Thomas that it had been Miranda that had convinced him to flee; Thomas had enough pain in his life without that little bit of information. “I should have gone to that place and freed you.”

Thomas gave a bitter laugh. “And thus have been imprisoned yourself without the protection of name or fortune? No, thank you. That would have made everything worse; I understand that now. I wanted you and Miranda to take care of each other and you did. That made me happy as it still does.”

They were silent for a long moment and then James said, “After your release, you went to live on an island?”

“Did Abigail tell you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad. It saves me from having to explain.”

Abigail had told him little, saying only that she’d found the deed for the island in Peter’s desk, that the island was quite isolated and that Thomas never seemed to have visitors save for the local pastor. He was aching to know the details but decided to leave it alone for now. He sighed and closed his eyes.

He’d left Nassau this morning fully intending to face Thomas, once and for all. He’d rehearsed his arguments and strategy—he would give his reasons, pointing out that while he was overjoyed that Thomas was alive, they were now on two different paths and those paths must diverge. He’d be resolute and firm and Thomas would never know the true reasons for his decision.

As he’d already admitted to Thomas, he’d been such an ass.

“Do you know the time?”

He glanced out the window; the sky was the bright aqua of late afternoon. “I have no idea. Three or four? My pocket watch is in my coat and Miranda’s clock is never very accurate.”

“How long does it take to ride to Nassau?”

“Less than an hour by horse. Why?”

Thomas sighed and gently pulled free. He sat up. “I promised Abigail I’d come for her by nightfall. If it’s anywhere near five, I must leave soon.”

“I’ll go. I’ll go and fetch her.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder. “You needn’t do that.”

“I want to. She was in my care first, you know.”

“We will fight over her, then.” Thomas smiled. “She is a sweet thing, is she not?”

“She is. And nothing like her father.”

He regretted the inference the moment the words were out of his mouth, but Thomas just nodded and said, “If I’d a daughter, I’d be very proud if she turned out to be like Abigail.”

Miranda had always sighed when she spoke of children. Once, when they were first lovers, he’d asked her delicately why she and Thomas had no children and she’d said, _‘The Lord has other roles in mind for me.’_ He’d never spoken of it again. It was only after Thomas had kissed him that first time, that he’d understood her comment, her sadness. “When she returns to London, what shall she do? Does she have any relatives?”

“There’s an aunt and uncle somewhere in Kent, I believe. Do you think they’ll press her to stay with them until her majority?”

“I think it highly possible. Why?” Thomas’s hair was rumpled; he smoothed it down, ordering the strands just so.

Thomas took his hand. “I want her to stay with us. I have no idea where we’ll live but I know she’ll prefer it. When she is ready, we’ll find her a suitable husband and she can then move into his home.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“Close your mouth, my dear,” Thomas said, a sharp gleam in his eye. “It’s not that far-fetched of an idea. Or,” he added, the spark of humor fading. “Is the idea of sharing a household with me so objectionable?”

“It’s not that,” was his immediate protest.

“Is it this place? Do you not want to leave?”

“I cannot wait to see the last of it.”

“Then what is it?”

He took a breath, then shook his head. “Thomas, I—” He had to stop, unable to say, _‘I was drummed out of the Navy for loving you and now you want to share a house?’_ or better, _‘Do you honestly think the best place for a gently-raised girl would be the home of a murderer who happens to be sodomite?’_

But he couldn’t throw either at Thomas, not now, so he settled for another truth: “I can’t make any plans other than the ones I’m making for Nassau. It will be another three weeks before we’re finished here, if not more. Abigail needs to return home. _You_ need to return home.”

Thomas said nothing for the longest time, then murmured, “You are my home.”

There was nothing he could say to that.

Thomas waited, and then said, “Do you not feel the same?”

“You know I do.”

“Then what is the problem?”

He opened his mouth than closed it again. Thomas was watching him with a clear, challenging gaze that asked him to make good on everything he had just said. “Can we speak of this later when I have time to think?”

“Of course, we can.”

“I’m not saying ‘no.’ I’m saying I need time.”

**“** Of course. **”** Thomas made to get up, but James grabbed his arm.

“Thomas—”

Once more, Thomas covered his hand with his own. “You must understand—I had nothing and now I have everything. I suppose it’s gone to my head.” He gave James a strange, self-deprecating smile. “I want you by my side for the rest of my days however long that may be and I want that day to start now. You say you need time; I suppose I do, as well.”

He swallowed away the contrary pain that brought and nodded shortly.

Thomas patted his hand. “Then go, collect Abigail. I’ll work on some sort of meal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You can cook?”

“You’d be surprised by the things I can do these days, James.”

Intrigued, but forced to put aside his curiosity, he gave Thomas one last kiss, then got out of bed.

They dressed.

James kept his eyes to himself, only allowing himself a brief glimpse of Thomas’s backside as he pulled on his breeches, reminding himself that he’d waited this long, he could wait a few more hours.

***

Thomas walked him to the porch.

“Nothing is going to happen,” James said, glancing around at the peaceful farm, “but in case it does, you better have this.” He gave Thomas his best flintlock. “You know how to fire this, yes?”

Thomas took it. “It has been a while, but I’m sure it will come back to me.”

He stepped close, his chest to Thomas’s arm, pointing to the firing pin. Thomas hadn’t put on his shoes and their height was almost equal; it would take no work to lean in and kiss his jaw and then his lips… “This has a modified hammer; just make sure you draw it all the way back.”

Thomas examined the silver chasing and the wood decoration. “Very nice.”

“I took it off a Dutchman. He wasn’t best pleased.”

“James,” Thomas sighed in reproach and then looked around.

It was a charged moment, made more difficult because he’d always loved that gently sarcastic, ‘ _You should know better’_ look of Thomas’s. He glanced down at Thomas’s lips, hesitating, then made himself step back.

“Remember,” he added around a mouth dry as bone, “it will buck so be prepared.”

“I will.”

“Good.” He turned away and went to the steps. He looked back.

The last time he’d been on this porch, his goal had been one of apology. Now, his goal was one of haste: ride to Nassau, retrieve Abigail and return so that…

_So that_ , and he pictured how it might be, supper and necessary conversation, then candles snuffed and Thomas in his bed. Lust curled thick in his belly like warm brandy. He resisted the force of it, not wanting to press his insistent affections, remembering they were out in the open where anyone might see.

Except Thomas was watching him with an expression made familiar these last few weeks—narrow-eyed and steady as if unsure of any welcome, and _damn_ it, he couldn’t _not_ act.

He rushed back, meeting Thomas halfway. Careful of the firearm, he wrapped his arm around Thomas’s waist and pulled him in, receiving a kiss that was at once demanding and imploring.

“You’ll return soon?” Thomas asked against his lips.

“By sundown.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Then, go.”

James went, hurrying to the paddock. He apologized to the patient horses, then mounted. Taking the reins of the second horse, he rode into the yard.

Thomas had come to the head of the steps.

James nodded, then gave the horse his heels.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

Thomas watched until James rode out of sight, then released the breath he was holding and looked around.

The sun was on the other side of the outbuildings, leaving the gardens and yard mostly in shadow. Over by the fence, a rabbit hopped cautiously amid the chickens; it was heading towards the garden. He should scare it off but he watched it with a great sense of peace. Once more, in the space of a few hours, his life had taken a new turn.

Although, he mused, not so much a new turn but a return to the old one, the _true_ one. Yes, there was much to discuss because James, no matter his words, was not convinced that it was vital they stay together and would need further persuasion. Then there was Abigail; his words had been absentminded and perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to bring a child into such a home, but she herself had said she wanted to stay with him.

But—he thought, smiling at the rabbit and the chickens, at the trees and the blue sky—those were worries for another time.

He went inside, set the flintlock on the side table and then continued on to the bedroom. The bedclothes were still mussed; one of the pillows was on the floor, the other was at the foot of the bed.

He leaned against the doorjamb.

Focused on James’s absence, bewildered by James’s refusal to acknowledge his presence, he’d given no true thought to the way each of them had changed.

His reaction to James was a case in point. Where had that come from? One minute he was pulling James to him, unable to kiss enough, touch enough, and the next, his mind was awash with alarm, feeling as if all light had gone from the room and he couldn’t breathe. Poor James; he’d been so shocked, so startled.

And then, when James had stood before him, clothing and weapons laid aside, startlement had been his own reaction or perhaps it had been saddened realization because James had been through hell and his body was proof.

James’s figure had always been physically efficient and aesthetically pleasing, but it had held a note of soft elegance, tested only by the common practices of the Royal Navy.

Not so, now.

Now, James’s muscles and sinews had been transformed, sharpened and strengthened, refashioned by whatever terrible experiences had come his way. Thomas closed his eyes part way, remembering the paths his own hand had taken over the hard surface of James’s chest, belly and back.

It seemed to him now as if James had never once had a moment of peace, and that, with his shorn hair and multitude of scars, he was at once familiar, unfamiliar, yet somehow improved.

The only thing that hadn’t changed for the better—and it pained Thomas to think on it—was James’s capacity for shame. It was still there, driving his decisions. James had clearly came to the house intending to bury their past relationship. He’d given his facile, almost clumsy reasons, actually expecting Thomas to accept them without question.

During their first months together, he had taken such pains to convince James that lying with him was no different than lying with a woman. That a body was a body and it was the mind that made the difference. Apparently, those lessons hadn’t taken.

But maybe that was no bad thing, and he crossed his arms over his chest, thinking on that.

He’d never thought much on convention and hadn’t felt any kind of shame over loving James—it just wasn’t in him. But, that blindness had been his undoing, harming the two people he loved most in this world. He’d assumed and ignored not only Miranda’s advice but the common sensibilities of the time. He’d ignored the former and felt contempt for the latter. Both had been arrogant mistakes, errors he wasn’t going to make again.

He pushed away from the door and began to set the room to rights, determination forming in his mind and soul.

In this coming life with James, he’d take more precautions, give more thought to the small-mindedness of his fellow man. _‘Damnant quod non intellegunt,’_ indeed. It was time to remember that for the most part, men lived in fear of the unknown and acted upon that fear daily. He’d keep watch of his own tendency to expect fair play and good sense from everyone around him and in doing so, he’d keep James safe.

They’d live someplace out of sight and mind from society; maybe in the Province of New Hampshire or the Massachusetts Bay colony so that James could be near the sea. The house would need to be large to give credence to the story of just two friends together.

Funds would be an issue. If his father hadn’t disinherited him, he would have tried to sequester the entailed property in Essex that normally would have beyond his reach. No such luck, now.

There was the modest sum bequeathed to him upon his grandfather’s death that he’d never touched though it was doubtful his father hadn’t gotten at it. There was always employment—if James could work, then so could he, and, as he neatened the bed, he considered his options.

He’d had a series of tutors that had augmented his schooling. Perhaps he could try his hand at the same? His Latin, French, Spanish and Italian were flawless. Or, there was always some type of clerk position at a financial institution or place of business—maybe a private secretary at a country estate?

He frowned at the coverlet he was straightening, remembering that any man living in the colonies who could afford a private secretary would have surely heard of the sad fate of the Lord Thomas Hamilton. No, if he were to have any kind of employment, it would have to be the secretive kind where his name and history could be well hidden.

He couldn’t quite think of what kind of job would give him that sort of privacy but he’d consult James. He might have an idea or two.

That decided, he picked up the pillow and placed it on the bed, pushing away the enticing image of James kneeling before him, naked as the day he was born except for his jewelry and his scars. He had work to do and couldn’t spend the afternoon daydreaming.

***

He’d exaggerated more than lied to James about his skills in the kitchen. He knew a few basics learned at Bethlem—how to toast bread with just his fingers, how to cook eggs that weren’t runny, but that was the sum total of his knowledge. It was a shame—turtles were in plentiful supply as were exotic fruits. A turtle soup or fruit sauce would be a fine addition to the salted pork on hand but how to cook it?

He was standing in front of the sideboard, testing the edge of one of Miranda’s hatchets and wondering if he had it in him to behead a chicken when a knock came at the door.

He stilled. There was no possibility it might be Hennessey—both James and Eleanor had assured him of the solidity and sincerity of the accord. That didn’t mean a new threat wasn’t about to present itself, though, and he went to the door, hiding the hatchet behind his leg. He opened the door.

A young man on the porch, wide-rimmed hat in hand. He had straw-colored hair and a pale complexion. Like a crow, he was dressed all in black, though the day was warm. He didn’t introduce himself, leading Thomas to say, “Yes?”

The young man glanced inside the house. “I was passing on the way to Mrs. Willows’ and noticed the smoke.” He gave Thomas a quick glance over, taking in his bare feet, his undress. “Have I interrupted something?”

“Not at all. I was simply wondering what to make for supper.” Thomas said placidly, not bothering to point out that the only fireplace in use had been the kitchen’s and those embers were long cold. “Who might you be?”

The man shifted from foot to foot but didn’t offer his hand. “Pastor Lambrick.”

“I see.” He glanced again, taking in the poor quality of Lambrick’s suit and neck cloth. “You are the head of the local church?”

The pastor jerked his head more than nodded. “I am.”

“And that is situated where?” he asked, wanting to smile. It was like talking to an especially nervous lamb, if especially nervous lambs could talk. “I don’t remember seeing a church in Nassau.”

“You wouldn’t,” Lambrick said with sudden heat. “That den of sinners would never stand for a church within their midst, nor would my flock wish to attend services there.”

He cocked his head. “Wouldn’t that be up to you? You are, after all, their spiritual leader. They go where you go.”

“I suppose that is true,” Lambrick said absently. He pursed his lips. “I know about Mrs. Barlow.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, taken aback at the swift change in subject. “She was murdered in Charles Town over a week ago.”

“Murdered? I heard it was justified homicide.”

“No trial, no chance to speak for her supposed crimes—how is that justified?”

Lambrick thought on that, then muttered, “You may be right. I was saddened to hear of her death, though not surprised.”

“How so?”

“Her connection with the pirates was her undoing. I attempted to give her counsel and show her the true path to God but she wouldn’t listen.”

A heady rush of anger cooled his neck and back but he kept his voice even as he said without offering his hand, “I’ve been remiss in my duties. I am Miranda’s husband. Well,” he let bitterness touch his voice, “I _was_ her husband.”

Lambrick turned an unbecoming shade of pink. “I thought— By her words, I understood you to be dead.”

“I was, and like Lazarus, I’ve returned, though not after four days. My resurrection took much longer.”

Lambrick drew up. “Mrs. Barlow mentioned you. She said she wished you and I could have met to have a conversation. She believed you would somehow enlighten me to the error of my ways, whatever that meant. I hardly think a blasphemer is capable of enlightening me in any way.”

“Calling myself ‘Lazarus’ isn’t a blasphemy. Now, if I’d said I was the son of God…” He trailed off and gave Lambrick a sweet smile. What had Miranda been thinking, making a friend of such an ass? “To what errors was she referring?”

“None, as I have made none. Any sins I might have committed were absolved by God. I now exist in a state of grace.”

“Good for you,” Thomas said gently. “Though, your very insistence strikes me as indicative that you have no such assurances.”

“I asked for God’s forgiveness and received it. Unlike the rest of Nassau, unlike Mrs. Barlow. She refused my assistance in that arena.”

“I hadn’t spoken to my wife in a number of years but I’m surprised she had need of your assistance in correcting anything, much less her relationship with God. She was never far from Him in any of her dealings.”

Lambrick frowned and his mouth tightened. “I beg to differ. Living in this place, sin and evil test the strength of one’s soul on a daily basis. I’m afraid to say that Mrs. Barlow succumbed.”

Tired of standing in the door being lectured at by this puppy, he pulled the door open. “I doubt that, but you are welcome to come in and discuss it while I prepare supper.” He gestured with the hatchet.

Lambrick hesitated, glancing at the hatchet and then down at the threshold as if it were the portal to hell. Finally, just as Thomas was making ready to shut the door, he stepped across.

The distance from door to kitchen was short and Thomas used the space of time it took to walk from the doorway to the bench counter to remind himself of his vow of circumspection and caution. It would do no good to alienate Lambrick—though it was unlikely the pastor had any power to harm Abigail or even himself, there was always James.

He poured a glass of water from the pewter jug. “Are you thirsty? Would you like some water? It’s from the well.” He turned and held the glass out.

Lambrick glanced down at the glass and then back up at Thomas.

“It’s just water,” Thomas said. “I am not Hades, you are not Persephone and this is not a pomegranate.”

Lambrick scowled but took the water. He drank it in one ungraceful gulp and gave the glass back to Thomas.

“Sit,” Thomas said. “I am going to attempt a soup and you are going to attempt to defend your cruel accusations.” He had a vague recipe of carrot soup in mind, one that Mrs. Cameron had made more than a few times.

“Cruel accusations?” Lambrick asked as he sat at the table. “I only speak the truth.”

He found a set of knives, then knelt and searched through the bins and boxes sitting on the floor. He found kindling, vegetables and a stash of twine and wire. He got out a handful of carrots; they seemed healthy though he wouldn’t really know—carrots didn’t go bad, did they? “Tell me of your truth.” He put them in the sink and poured water over them.

“My truth is God’s truth.”

“Your truth is your own.” He began scrubbing away the dirt on the carrots, using his fingernails to get out the most stubborn of dirt.

“It is not.”

“When not of the Bible, God’s truth is open to man’s interpretation. By your words, you use His to vindicate your prejudices, to mediate your own sins.” There was no response and he glanced over his shoulder. Lambrick was glaring, lips thin with anger. “You were in love with my wife, were you not?” Even from across the room, he could see Lambrick’s slow, unbecoming flush. He shrugged. “It’s no offense; she was easy to love.”

“I take my vows seriously.”

“Then I wonder at your need for absolution.” He finished washing the carrots and began to cut them, slicing them evenly. “I’m assuming that was what you were referring to, the affair with my wife.”

“There was no affair.”

“Tryst, then.”

Lambrick said nothing for a long moment, then muttered, “I don’t understand you. You speak of God and His grace in one breath and adultery in the next. If you believe in one, you must detest the other.”

“I never had trouble reconciling my belief in God and my disbelief of what most call ‘sin’.”

“And what of fidelity? What of faithfulness?”

“You mean Miranda? What would you have me say?”

Lambrick shook his head in frustration even as he frowned. “Did she mean nothing to you? Why was she out here in this place? Why were you not with her?”

“I will only say I loved her dearly.” He seemed to remember Mrs. Cameron adding other types of vegetables to the soup but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall what they were. “The rest is none of your concern.”

“When it comes to the safety of my flock, everything is my concern.”

He crouched before the fireplace and held his hand over the remnants of the fire. There was only a trace heat but it should be enough. “Surely you’re not saying that Miranda was a danger to the people of Nassau?”

“I’m saying that this is a very peculiar household, made more so by your arrival.”

He took a handful of kindling and placed it gently over the charred wood with care. He blew on the sleeping mass; it sparked and caught fire. “And that means?”

“It means that Mrs. Barlow’s unfortunate appetite for criminals and murderers seems to be echoed within your own soul.”

He stilled, hand over the infant flame. He looked over his shoulder. “And that means?”

“You know well,” Lambrick hissed, standing so abruptly the chair fell to the floor. “I _saw_ you.”

His first reaction was to dismiss Lambrick’s accusation with the contempt it deserved, but that would be disregarding his own vow. Lambrick might be a weak lamb but that didn’t mean he couldn’t grow teeth. He must keep calm, must step carefully if this wasn’t to come back to haunt James in some way.

Casually, he reached for a thicker piece of wood and laid it over the fire, then stood up and turned.

Lambrick’s blush had deepened and there was an ugly gleam in his eye.

“What did you see?”

“You and he—” Lambrick made a gesture, as if that explained everything.

“You are not a child,” Thomas answered coolly. “And neither are you naive if you’ve lived here long enough. You know such things exist.”

Lambrick gestured again. “It’s a sin! The most abhorrent of all!”

“More abhorrent than murder?” Thomas asked, taking a step forward. “More abhorrent than infanticide or regicide?” He almost added, ‘ _or patricide?’_ then remembered.

Lambrick snarled. “There are degrees of sin, don’t tell me there are not! No wonder she left you. No wonder she made carnal advances to me if all she had in her bed was nothing but a sod—”

“You should go,” he said harshly, interrupting Lambrick. “You should go and never come back.”

Lambrick glared, his throat working. “All this time, I never quite understood her. I felt pity for her but not understanding.”

Thomas said nothing.

“And now—?” Lambrick shook his head but turned to the door.

Thomas followed him out, keeping to the porch.

Lambrick stopped on the path and put his hat back on. He turned to face Thomas. “I met with Mr. Underhill yesterday. He informed me that a representative of the King is here on the islands.”

“Mr. Woodes Rogers; we’ve met.”

“Knowing what I now know, I wonder what he would think of Captain Flint’s involvement with the negotiations if a charge of sodomy was added to his list of crimes.”

“Admiral Hennessey and Mr. Rogers have agreed not to prosecute Captain Flint.”

Lambrick frowned and then his face cleared and he said with a small smile. “But for how long?”

He didn’t let any shock show, saying only, “Give my regards to Mrs. Willows, Pastor Lambrick.”

Lambrick’s mouth worked but he left without another word, stomping off, making the dust fly. As soon as he’d passed out of view, Thomas muttered, “Damn it all!” and pounded his fist against the stuccoed support.

So much for thoughtfulness, so much for care. He should have denied and refuted—anything but what he’d done. But, to call what he and James had the ultimate sin? It was barbaric.

But not unexpected and he sighed at his own witlessness as he went back inside. He’d tried to act with reason and cunning and had failed. Maybe lying was something that came easier with time. Maybe by the time there was no need for it, he’d be an expert.

***

The fire on the hearth was dying and he added more wood, this time not quite so carefully. Sparks flew and fluttered about his face; he brushed them away. His good mood of earlier gone, he was tired and wished for nothing more than a nap.

He went back to the counter and found a cache of small potatoes. He washed them, then cut them up, focusing on the task at hand and not his failure. He was wondering if the pieces were too small when he heard footsteps on the porch followed by the door opening. His heavy spirit lightened as James came in, followed by Abigail.

“There you are,” James said, removing his coat. “Is supper ready?”

“I’m afraid not,” Thomas said, smiling at Abigail. “I rather overstated my cookery knowledge. Hello, my dear, did you have a good afternoon?”

“I did,” Abigail said, glancing from Thomas to James. “Eleanor showed me how to decorate a glass with shells.”

“Really? When you get a moment, you must show me.”

“What happened, Thomas?” James asked, removing his baldric. “Are you all right?”

His smile became true; he’d forgotten how easily James read his every expression. “I’m well, though I had a visitor, one Pastor Lambrick.”

James paused. “Lambrick was here?”

“Yes. You just missed him.”

“What did he have to say?”

Thomas glanced at Abigail, then back at James. “He said he’d heard of Miranda’s death.”

James glanced at Abigail, as well, then nodded slowly. “I see.” He hung up his baldric. “Anything else?”

“Not that I wish to discuss at this time.”

James nodded shortly and set his flintlock next to Thomas’s, then joined him in the kitchen. “What are you making? May I help?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “If your skills in the kitchen equal mine, then we are in a sad state.”

James rolled up his sleeves. “There should be a small barrel in that corner. Get it for me. Abigail?”

Abigail came into the kitchen. “Yes?”

“We’re going to need about five times as many potatoes as those.” James pointed to Thomas’s small pile. “You can use this.” He reached around Thomas for a wooden board and a knife. “Do you know how to clean a potato?”

Abigail took the knife and board, looking at them curiously. “No.”

“Just dunk them in water and scrub them with this…” James reached in front of Thomas and grabbed a small brush. “Make sure you get out any dirt, then wash them again.”

“I didn’t scrub mine with a brush,” Thomas said as he went to retrieve the barrel, finding it under a stack of wicker baskets. “Should I wash them again?”

“No; we’ll just hope that your bowl is the one that has all the dirt in it.”

From her place at the table, Abigail giggled; Thomas just snorted. He pulled the barrel free. “What are you going to make?”

“Potato soup.”

He carried the barrel to the counter and watched as James opened it and removed a few pieces of salted pork. “Why do you need pork for potato soup?”

“To give it flavor. Cut those into squares.”

He got another knife while James gathered a variety of herbs and vegetables and in a moment they were side by side, making the meal. “What about my carrots?”

“We’ll add them to the soup.”

“Oh.” After the day he’d had, the moment was dream-like, as if a deeply buried wish had come true, though he couldn’t remember any desire to watch James in the kitchen.

James was methodical as in all things and Thomas watched with appreciation his quick, deft handling of the food and knives.

“I suppose you’re wondering where I acquired such skills,” James murmured.

“I suppose I am.”

“When Miranda and I got to Nassau, I realized her knowledge of the practical side of life was less than ideal whereas I grew up having to know everything from how to launder a shirt to mend a sock.”

“I remember,” he said softly, thinking on one of their earliest conversations, when James had related his haphazard childhood, cared for by no one in particular until Hennessey came along.

“I had to show Miranda how to bake and cook. We both learned how to grow vegetables.” James laughed. “We ruined many crops and meals in the beginning.”

“But you triumphed, as always.”

“Mostly because she was relentless. She said she’d be damned if she let the garden pests have their way.” James’s smile died. “By then, I had my own ship and crew.” He gathered up his herbs and carried them to the pot. “I furthered my culinary education on-board when I was without a cook. I learned how to make meatballs from a Swede, crab cakes from a Spaniard. I even learned out to make a fruitcake from a woman on Tortuga.”

James smiled that sweet, uneasy, half-smile that Thomas only just remembered and something painful twisted in his chest. “Who was it, this woman?”

His question was innocent but James raised his eyebrow. “No one important. I can’t even remember her name.”

He nodded, not believing that for a moment, and returned to the pork. There were so many things he’d taken for granted and one of those assumptions was that James had been as chaste as he. So ridiculous—James and Miranda had lived together in this house for almost ten years and then there was all those months spent on the ocean and all those men…

“Are you done?”

He looked up to find James watching him steadily. He set the knife down. “I am.”

“Here—” James scooped up the pork, his shoulder pressing against Thomas’s for a long, sweet moment.

“What comes next?” he said around the lump in his throat.

“After all that simmers for a few minutes, we add the milk and potatoes and then wait while it cooks.”

***

He took advantage of the lull before supper to wash up and change his clothes. He got water from the well and then carried it to his room and stripped down to his breeches. He washed his hands, face and chest, then dried off.

He hadn’t examined the clothing that James had given him and was surprised by the variety: A pair of linen breeches, two linen shirts, several pairs of woolen stockings and a linen stock. In the largest package he found a beautifully embroidered coat, waistcoat and breeches made of a slate colored silk; there was even a pair of matching silk stockings folded up in the waistcoat pocket. The suit was far too elaborate for anything but a formal event. It had been ages since he’d worn anything so elegant and hadn’t missed it; he’d gotten used to the rough clothing of the colonies. What had possessed James to purchase such a costly outfit?

He sat on the bed and held the waistcoat to the fading light. He did like the color, though. He’d always been fond of blues that shaded from indigo to green. They had reminded him of the colors of nature—the seas, the forests. He’d had many such suits made for him in—

He took a breath and closed his eyes. Oh.

This was what Charles Vane had referred to when he’d complained about, _‘being two days late to see to some fancy clothing…’_ James had held up the negotiations to have the suit made for him. Which was either very foolish or very, very—

“Do you like it?”

He opened his eyes. James was in the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb.

He smiled weakly. “At the risk of sounding churlish, I have to point out that I no longer attend functions where a suit such as this would be appropriate.”

“I know, but I saw the material and thought of you.”

He looked down at the waistcoat and unfastened one of the buttons. “Which Thomas did you buy it for? The old me or the new me?” The buttons were silver, delicately chased with figures of birds in flight. “I only ask because the old me no longer exists.”

James tipped his head and said smoothly, “Whom do you think you’re talking to? Do you actually think I’d be fobbed off by such a statement?”

Somehow relieved, Thomas laughed. “Touché, my dear, though I believe the correct word was, ‘argument.’”

James closed the door and came over. He sat by Thomas’s side. “I know we both have changed. I know there are things we still need to discuss but this…” He touched the waistcoat. “…isn’t one of them. I bought it for the person I love best in this world because I thought he might like it. That is all.”

He couldn’t help but smile at James’s words. “Then, thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“You can do better than that,” James whispered, looking down at his mouth.

He smiled again and thanked James properly, leaning in to press a kiss upon his lips, sighing when he was kissed in return.

James tasted of liquor and some sweet herb. Desire—renounced by habit as much as duty—resurged along with a spike of startling covetousness.  James belonged to him and no one else; not the men on the ship, not the woman from Tortuga, not even, God help him, Miranda, and he cupped James’s jaw, his kisses growing hard, harsh.

“What is it?” James pulled away to whisper, “What is wrong?”

Thomas hesitated, then said, “Not a thing.”

James’s eyes narrowed but he took Thomas’s words at face value even as he took his mouth.

It hurt, this kiss, and he welcomed the pain wishing Abigail wasn’t down the hall, wishing he hadn’t shoved James away earlier, wanting desperately now what he’d repudiated then.

After a moment he drew back, only so far as to rest his cheek against James’s. “I have missed you so very much,” he sighed. “Regardless of how it happened, I am happy to be here.”

“Let us cross our fingers you won’t have cause to change your mind over the next few months.”

He smiled. “Always so pessimistic, my James.”

“Better that than a fool.”

He straightened up. “I can see we will be continuing our old discussion on the virtues of hope and faith.” The wild need had retreated to its proper place, leaving him at peace though a little tired.

James took the waistcoat from him and folded it. He stood up and held out his hand. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I look forward to each and every one.”

He let himself be pulled up. “You were never indifferent or bored.” He picked up one of the new shirts and pulled it over his head; it smelled of clean, fresh cotton. “Or were you just leading me on?”

“You deserve a _yes_ , for that.”

He smiled as he slipped out of his breeches and then again when James held out the new pair. “Thank you, and I suppose I do.” He stepped into the breeches. “These might be too large,” he added, fastening the flies.

“That is because you have grown thin. Lift up your shirt…”

James adjusted the laces, hands warm on the small of his back. Thomas held his breath refusing the instinct to lean back. There was Abigail, there was the proper place and time, there was his promise to himself even though he’d already broken it.

James finished and stepped close, forehead against his shoulder. “I missed you, as well,” he murmured. “And regardless of what might happen, I am so glad you’re here, too.”

He reached for James’s hands and tugged until James was holding him in a loose embrace. “Not to break the moment, but I need to tell you of my tête-à-tête with Pastor Lambrick.”

“Can this tête-à-tête be related in two minutes?”

“No.”

“Then…” James gave him a mighty squeeze and then turned him around. “…we will wait until after supper.”

***

To accompany the soup, James had made a salad with greens, bits of fruit and some sort of pale vegetable he’d cut into tiny cubes.

“What is this?” Thomas said, taking a bite. It had an odd texture and held a bitter hint.

“German potato,” James answered. “Miranda has a row of it in the garden. Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure. Abigail? What do you think?”

Abigail took a dutiful bite, her expression changing much as Thomas’s had. “I’m not sure,” she said, as well. “It’s bitter, isn’t it?”

“It’s good for you,” James said flatly. “And the sauce has lime juice in it so you’ll both eat it; I don’t want either of you getting scurvy.”

Eyebrow raised, Thomas shared a quick glance with Abigail, and—hiding a smile—ate all of it.

***

After supper, Abigail washed the dishes while James made a vague comment about ensuring the traps were set for the rats and asked Thomas to accompany him.

Thomas waited until they were some distance from the kitchen window before saying, “Do you always use the excuse of examining the rodent traps as a way to be alone with your paramours?” It was hard to see the path but James seemed to know where he was going.

James snorted. “I have no paramours.”

Thomas pushed a branch out of his way. His jealousy of earlier seemed distant, almost a dream and he answered calmly, “Truly?”

James stopped so quickly that Thomas ran into him. “What do you think I’ve been doing out here?” he asked. “I haven’t had time for anything like that.”

He wasn’t sure if the cool ache he felt was relief or sadness. “Except for Miranda, you mean.”

James glowered and glanced around before saying, “Yes. And no.” He shook his head. “I made an effort, of course, but it wasn’t—” he broke off again and tightened his jaw fiercely.

So, sadness, then and damn jealousy, anyway. The knowledge that James might as well have lived as a monk made him so very sad. “In the past few weeks whenever I thought of you and Miranda together, I was happy for you. As much as it hurt, I was happy that you and she had each other to ease your loneliness. But you _were_ alone, weren’t you?”

“Almost as alone as you were in that place, in Charles Town,” James said, his voice dropped to a rough whisper. “Did you have anyone?”

“No,” he said with a brief, smile. “Whether it was the laudanum or the state of my soul, I was neither interested nor capable.”

“Thomas.”

He closed his eyes at the reflected pain in James’s voice. “No more or we’ll both be weeping.”

After a moment, James said, “Very well.”

He opened his eyes and forced a smile. “We’ll pretend we’re out for a moonlit stroll as we did in London.”

James gave him his elbow. “Like the time at the Pierson’s?”

He laughed and took James’s arm. “That was an interesting evening, was it not?” His eyes had grown used to the dark and he could see the path now. “Frederick and his obsession with the Orient,” he mused, trying to remember the details of Pierson’s folly. “That black stone bench was so very uncomfortable.”

“More so for me than for you. I tore my breeches while yours remained pristine.”

He squeezed James’s hand. “I don’t think I ever apologized for that so I will now—I am sorry. It was just that you were so very beautiful in your stubbornness and I was so very eager.” It had been more than that and James covered his hand.

“I remember.”

He hummed happily under his breath and they continued for some time in silence until they came to a fork in the path.

“Now,” James said, turning to Thomas without letting go of his hand. “What did Lambrick say?”

“It seems we were as inopportune this afternoon as we were at the Pierson’s.”

James’s soft expression hardened. “By that I take it to mean he saw me kiss you?”

“He did.”

“And he’s upset?”

“To say the least. He’s going to inform Hennessey and Rogers in an effort to block your pardon.”

James looked to the side. “They already know. About us, I mean.”

“Yes, but that knowledge was held within their fairly small group. Once it’s common gossip, they might be forced to act whether they will or no.” He gripped James’s hands. “We must not let that affect your pardon. Is there anything we can do about Lambrick? Is there any way to stop him?”

James said nothing.

“What is it?” When James still said nothing, Thomas pressed, “You might as well tell me; you know I’ll never give up.”

James loosened his grip and stepped back out of reach. He tipped his head up and said, “I have no pardon.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have no pardon,” James repeated slowly, as if to a child. “My crimes are too great.”

Thomas furrowed his brow, trying to understand. “All this time you have been meeting with them with no guarantee of—” He put his fingers to his temple. “When did they inform you of their decision?”

“At the very beginning.”

“You and Miss Guthrie lied?”

“It wasn’t her choice. I convinced her.”

“And Spain?”

“By now they know their gold is gone and they probably know who took it.”

“And you stayed here knowing what will happen? That Hennessey was out for blood, that Spain will no doubt send agents to assassinate you on mere principal?” He threw up his hand in anger. “How could you be so stupid?”

“It wasn’t stupidity, Thomas!” James answered. “After all these years, I had to see it through!”

“At the cost of your life? What were you thinking?”

“Of you,” James answered with soft fury. “Of you and your dream of a free Nassau.”

Anger waned to a warmth that burned his chest and throat. “James. Do you honestly think my desire for a free Nassau has any precedence over my desire for your safety? For your life? If they hang you once the negotiations are closed, how do you think that will make me feel, because I tell you this, you might as well fit me for the same noose because I wouldn’t survive your second death!”

James had stilled and was staring at him in obstinate silence.

He stepped forward and took James’s hand. “I know you, James. I know once you get the bit between your teeth it’s almost impossible to stop you, but stop you will.”

“Thomas—”

He squeezed James’s hands hard enough to feel bone move. “The negotiations have their own momentum. Eleanor and Underhill will move forward without your help. You will finish up what you need and then we will find the earliest ship back to Charles Town.”

“I can’t just pack up and leave!”

“Yes, you can. It’s as easy as taking the first step forward.”

“Miranda said something similar,” James murmured absently. “She said it was as easy as walking through a door.”

“It is.”

“We walked through that door and look what happened!”

“I’m assuming you’re referring to her death?”

“Yes!”

“So, you think that if you tried once and it didn’t work, you should stop trying?”

James pulled away. “I’m saying what I’ve been saying all along: I am not who I was and they will never let me forget it!”

“Very well,” Thomas said softly, evenly, “here is what I am saying, and I will say it very clearly so there is no possibility of misunderstanding: You will leave this place with me. If you do not, I will find a way to make you.”

There was a long slow moment where he could hear his own heart, hear James’s quick breath.

“Are you threatening me with kidnapping?”

“Yes.”

“Even though I have fifty men at my disposal?”

“Yes.”

James hesitated. “How would you go about it?”

As easy as if he’d been ruminating this all along, he said, “Borrowing on the small amount of gold I’m sure you have stashed somewhere in your personal effects, I’ll purchase passage for three on the next ship bound for the colonies. After that, I will obtain laudanum from Eleanor or some local merchant. I’ll ask Mr. Scott to be on hand with a cart. I will force you to ingest some of the laudanum. If you refuse, I’ll put it in your water as you have to drink sometime. Once you are unconscious, Mr. Scott and I will load you on to the cart and then we will bring you aboard the ship.

“By the time you awaken, we will be half way to Charles Town. If you make a fuss, I’ll keep dosing you until you are compliant. When we have reached port, we will hire a man to take us to the island. We will stay there until you are recovered and then we will plan our next move.”

“Mr. Scott is a friend. How will you convince him to help you in your scheme?”

“I’m very persuasive, James. I am sure I can come up with something.”

“And how do you suppose to fool everyone in Charles Town? They know who I am.”

“People never see what is right in front of their noses, though we will have to make some changes.” He reached out to tug the point of James’s beard. “Sadly, this will have to go as will your beautiful hair. It will grow back once we’re settled.”

“And where will that be?”

“I told you: we’ll find some place. Some out of the way place and there we will live. If we need two houses to satisfy local curiosity, we will have them.”

“That will be expensive.”

“It most certainly will. You’ll need to find employment as it suits you, as will I.”

James raised an eyebrow. “What will you do?”

He gave James a haughty stare. “Anything you can do, James McGraw, I can do as well.”

He expected a growl or a complaint, but James froze. “‘McGraw,’” he whispered. “I haven’t been him for so long.”

He took James’s hand. “I know, but he’s been there all along, waiting to take his rightful place.”

James said nothing for a long moment, and then he said, “Do you really think it will be that easy?”

“No. I think we will face all manner of trials, but I refuse to let my fears rule my heart. I’ve lived that life and it’s no life worth living.”

“Very well.”

He smiled slowly. He’d made his case watertight, but still, he was surprised at James’s capitulation. “You agree to my proposal?”

“I do.”

“We will leave within the week?”

“Sooner. I can manage it.” James drew a deep breath, his gaze turning inward. “I’ll begin my preparations tonight.”

It was almost too easy and he sighed. “Good.”

“There is much to be done, many things to arrange.”

“Then, let’s go in and tell Abigail.”

***

Abigail was less than enthusiastic until Thomas informed her of his entire plan. “And I will stay with you? I won’t have to return to London?”

They were sitting at the table while James went through some papers at Miranda’s desk. “For the time being,” Thomas repeated. “We’ll need to contact your solicitor. It will have to be done diplomatically.”

“So as not to endanger Captain Flint?” Abigail asked with a quick glance at James.

“Yes, and by association, you. And that is another thing: at a certain point in our travels, Captain Flint will by necessity become James McGraw.”

She nodded. “Will we live in Charles Town?”

He and James shared glances. “I am not sure of the details but living within the city boundaries won’t be possible.”

“I don’t mind,” Abigail said. “I hold no affection for the town.” She looked down. “Will I ever return to Nassau?”

“Yes,” James said firmly from across the room. “We both will.”

He could see her relief, but she just said, “When will we leave?”

“Tomorrow or the next day? Can you be ready?”

She nodded again, then asked hesitantly, “What of my new dresses? They’ll need to be fitted.”

He’d forgotten all about Mrs. Needham. He turned to look over his shoulder. “James?”

“I’m going to write a list of instructions for Eleanor,” James said without raising his head. “I’ll include the dresses.”

“And I’m sure Mrs. Cameron knows many skilled seamstresses in Charles Town,” he reassured Abigail. “Don’t fret about that.” He stood. “Now, it’s late and we have much to do tomorrow. You go to bed and try to get some sleep.”

She stood as well and had taken a few steps towards her room before turning and hurrying back to give him a quick hug.

He held her tight. “What is this for?”

“I didn’t believe that you meant it. I thought you’d send me back to London.”

“I told you that I would support your decision as long as you weren’t in danger, as long as it was truly yours.”

She nodded and pulled away. “May I read for a time?”

“Yes, but only for an hour; it’s late.”

“Good night.”

James said nothing, leaving Thomas to answer, “Sleep well.”

Abigail picked up her book and went to her room; she was frowning slightly and he was hoping it was due to her worry over the dresses and not Billy Manderly.

He went to the spinet and touched the case. “We can’t leave the harpsichord. What shall we do with it?”

“I’m going to ask Eleanor to keep an eye on the house. When enough time has passed, I’ll either return or hire someone to pack everything up.”

“Good.” He watched James for a moment. “What are you doing?”

“Going through Miranda’s papers. She kept some documents of her time in London and I want to make sure no one else gets their hands on them.”

“May I help?”

James paused and then slowly raised his head. He stared at Thomas.

“What is it?”

“It just came to me…”

“Yes?” he asked when James didn’t finish.

“You are really here. You are here talking to me, breathing the air I breathe. I—” James pressed his lips tight together and Thomas was before him on one knee, covering his hands.

“I know. I know that feeling and I promise to be by your side forever. I _promise_.”

“Thomas. You can’t promise anything like that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you—”

He stood, shutting James up by pulling him up. He took the papers and tossed them to the table, not caring that some fell to the floor. He had one objective and he drew James to the door and out to the dark porch.

As if he’d been planning this, as well, he led James unerringly to the corner and shoved him against the stucco wall and was on him in an instant.

They didn’t speak. Or rather, they didn’t speak in anything approaching complete sentences, meeting hungry kiss for hungry kiss as he made quick work of James’s flies, unbuttoning what was necessary because he remembered this, lessons made perfect by practice and the desire for immediacy. With the precision of the devout, he found what he needed, warm and full. He squeezed.

James groaned and grabbed his hand, forcing his grip. “ _Thomas.”_

“I know.” Mouth watering, he buried his hot face in James’s neck, welcoming the rush of air in his ears, the wildness in his soul, familiar senses sorely missed. If they were anywhere but where they were, he’d give full vent to them all. He’d express his worship with his voice by quoting scripture, with his body by entering James and making them—

“Thomas, please…” James growled through gritted teeth, taking short breaths and Thomas remembered that, too. Watching James at the edge had always been a beautiful thing but he wanted more and he dropped to his knees and took James in his mouth.

James gasped, grabbed his shoulders and quit breathing.

Nine years. It had been nine years ago that he’d performed this act and he’d forgotten how James felt, tasted. Greedy, he took James further in, plying skills made rusty with time and disuse and it hardly seemed to matter because it was only a moment before James groaned, thrust once and then twice, spending himself as he gasped for air.

He gave it a few moments, schooling his own throat, his own pulse before gently pulling back. He put his hand on James’s leather-covered ankle and looked up.

James was staring down at him, eyes narrowed as if focused on something very far away. His throat was shiny and his mouth was lax. “Well…” he finally whispered, following it with nothing more than a crooked, rueful smile.

“Well,” Thomas answered, because it hurt, how much he’d missed that smile.

James let go of his shoulder and stroked his temple. “If you want me to reciprocate, my love,” he said in a rough whisper, “you’ll need to wait a bit. I don’t think I can straighten up.”

“It’s not necessary. Watching you was enough.”

Understanding, James said gruffly, “Come up here.”

Thomas got to his feet, guiding James’s hand to the front of breeches, finding the damp spot. It had been a surprise, his own release, too quiet to notice.

“I’m torn between being flattered and disappointed.”

“I’d choose flattery. I haven’t felt anything like that in a very long time. Nine years, though I don’t remember the exact date.”

“The sixteenth of August,” James whispered, bringing Thomas between his spread legs. “The day after I arrived home from Nassau.”

He closed his eyes and curled against James, suddenly recalling that night and morning, their casual conversation as he lay in bed, idly watching James dress for his journey to Whitehall. “Your memory is so much more complete than mine. Sometimes it’s all I can do to think of how you and I were back then.”

James stroked his back. “Those memories were all I had; I’ve polished them to perfection.” He kissed Thomas’s hair. “I am so glad.”

“Of what?”

“Of this.” James touched Thomas’s hip. “I read your letter to Peter.”

He had to think what James meant and then he understood. “For the longest time, I was afraid desire had left me forever, that I was dead inside. And then I set eyes upon you and realized all my worries were for naught. I feel like a schoolboy again, having to instruct my body to behave on a daily basis. I’d forgotten what that felt like.”

He wouldn’t have thought his words were so inflammatory but James gripped his hair and pulled his head up to give him a kiss that burned. Then his touch softened and he murmured, “You can’t remember and I can’t forget; we are a pair.”

“As I told you from the beginning.”

“Hmm,” James answered and then said with a hesitant voice, _“‘Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you.’_

Ovid had been one of James’s favorites and it struck Thomas how prophetic that appreciation was. “Do you feel like that outcast poet? Is Nassau your Tomis?”

“It was, but not anymore. I have a new home, now.”

He wanted to weep at the soft acknowledgement, but reached for James’s hand instead. He kissed his palm. “Thank you for that. When we have time and a real bed, I’ll thank you properly.”

“When we have time and a real bed, we’ll not leave it for a week.”

He smiled, pushed away. “We will do no such thing as it would be an event sure to set tongues wagging.”

“When did you ever care about gossip?”

He deftly setting James to right, tucking him in, buttoning his flies. “When I realized that my rigid ideals changed your life forever. Before Lambrick showed up on this porch, I promised myself I would be heedful of convention.” He tugged on James’s belt, fitting it better.

James stopped his hands. “Thomas, I don’t want you to change who you are for me.”

“You changed who you were for me, didn’t you?” Thomas responded mildly. “I’m sure you enjoyed a part of your new profession but can you honestly say it was your choice?”

James frowned and glanced to the side.

Thomas nodded knowingly. “Yes. You did that for me; I can do no less for you. You said it yourself, _‘I’ll do what I must to ensure your safety.’_ If lying to our new acquaintances keeps you safe, I’ll lie every day of the year and count myself right with God.”

James nodded, still with that half frown. And then his frown disappeared and he smiled broadly with no hint of anger. “So you decide to be more discreet and the first thing you do is bring me to an open porch to make love to me where anyone can see?”

Thomas looked around and his jaw dropped. “Damnation.”

James snorted and took his hand. “I’m sure we were safe from prying eyes, my dear, but perhaps we better go back inside. You’re not to be trusted when it comes to me.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, but followed James willingly.

_***_

The rest of the evening was spent side by side at the table, organizing Miranda’s documents. Many were household accounts from their time in London and try as he might, his mood grew somber. He’d forgotten how thorough she’d been; each expenditure was noted, even the gifts to the staff and himself.

A little before ten, head swimming with exhaustion and melancholy, he kissed James on the cheek and said goodnight.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

_Under no circumstances is this to be used for anything other than emergencies or to aid one of the men. I trust in your judgment._

_JF_

James put down his quill and rubbed his neck, glancing at the clock. Almost midnight or close to it, given the clock’s inaccuracies. He’d been writing for almost two hours and he felt it in his back, hand and wrist. His father had complained of arthritis at the end of his life. He would have thought himself too young for an old man’s ailment; maybe it was all his years at sea.

Or maybe it was Miranda’s chairs. He’d never sat in them for longer than the time it took to eat a meal and they were supremely uncomfortable. Maybe it was just that.

There was one place that he knew to be comfortable, a place where he could finish his work in peace. That place—or to be more precise, its occupant—had been calling to him for the last hour, a silent siren call difficult to ignore, slipping between his thoughts, disrupting his concentration.

Discretion, or so Thomas had said, was the thing by which he now operated and James should be glad because he’d always valued discretion far more than Thomas had. But the tables, it seemed, had been turned because he didn’t care that Abigail was in a room nearby. He didn’t care that Eleanor’s man was staying at a house a stone’s throw to the south. He wanted to get up and stride down the hallway and—

He got to his feet, but headed for the front door instead of the bedroom.

It was pleasantly cool outside. The full moon was nowhere to be seen and the entire farm was in shadows, the gardens, the barn, the porch…

Out of the side of his eye, he glanced at the far corner and in an instant his skin was burning and his pulse was racing, remembering Thomas’s kisses, his hand and then his mouth…

It burned, the memory and what had Thomas said? _‘I feel like a schoolboy again.’_

He knew those feelings well, having lived them for the last three weeks. So, three weeks and he’d survived; he could do another few days easily. All it took was determination and focus. The plans weren’t going to plan themselves. There were the schedules and lists, as well as the rest of the letters.

He turned to the door and was almost through when he gripped the frame of the door, recalling something else: ‘ _It just came to me: you are really here by my side, talking to me, breathing the same air,’_ again overwhelmed by the echo of his own voice, the remembered feeling.

He’d thought himself done with epiphanies but Thomas’s simple offer of help had hit him like a blow.

For so long, he’d been alone in every part of his world. At sea, he’d had no confidents other than Gates, and faith in the mission only went so far. On land, there had been Miranda and Eleanor but each brought their own set of issues bound by their own limitations of what he could say, what he could reveal.

Thomas, on the other hand, had always taken the whole of him without question or censure. Quick-witted and big-hearted, there was more than a bit of the renegade in Thomas. People had always thought of him as some lofty idealist with more money than good sense; he was so much more than that. No matter what Miranda had said all those years ago, Thomas saw the whole of an issue, the _realness_ of an issue. If he ever faltered, it was in the execution of his ideas and that’s where James came in as he’d always excelled in the latter.

Beyond the lovemaking, they matched so well, each balancing the other. Thomas had once said that the New World was a gift, a sacred opportunity, and that it was his duty to do right by it.

Though equally sacred if only to him, James’s gift was nothing so ephemeral, so monumental as a continent. His gift was a living, breathing man, asleep not thirty feet away. To have that again was more than he’d ever hoped, and he let go of the doorframe, decision made.

He closed and locked the door, and snuffed all the candles save one. He shouldered his baldric, then picked up his writing things, his flintlock and the candle, and turned to the bedroom.

Then he put everything down on the table and hurried to the kitchen.

There was no reason to wash, he reminded himself. Regardless of the time and the delicacy of their situation, there was Thomas’s health. Howell had said he was recovered but there was a paleness about him that belied that diagnosis. He needed rest, good food and peace.

Nonetheless, he poured a basin full of water and removed his shirt, gaiters and shoes. He scrubbed his teeth and body, ending with a quick scrub of his hair. He used Miranda’s good tea towels to dry himself, then tossed the water out the window.

Done, he gathered everything up again and went to the bedroom.

***

The room was lit by a single, dying candle. The window was open, letting in the breeze. He tiptoed across the floor and put his armload on the washstand.

He wasn’t surprised to see Thomas’s breeches, waistcoat and shirt half on the stand, half on the chair. In the past, they’d had more than a few disagreements about Thomas’s inability to put his clothes where they belonged. James had always grumbled, saying it was because Thomas had been waited on hand and foot from the time he was born and thus felt comfortable discarding his things higgledy-piggledy, knowing a servant would pick them all up. Thomas had always returned with something along the lines that time spent on the floor or a chair wasn’t going to harm the clothes in any way.

It became a game, after a while, each winding the other up because they could. James’s favorite of Thomas’s responses, one he’d secretly smiled over for weeks after, came from complaining that Thomas’s new waistcoat, the one with the black pearl buttons and gold thread embroidery, didn’t belong on the floor. Thomas had been standing by the foot of the bed at the time, busy undressing while relating the details of his conversation with Lord Dunster. He’d turned to James, clothed only in his smallclothes and said, as stately as if giving a speech to Parliament, ‘ _That may be true, but it’s just a waistcoat, James, not the holy Shroud of Turin.’_

Who would have thought he’d miss those moments and he was smiling when he turned to observe Thomas.

Thomas was sleeping on his side, facing the south wall, covered by the sheet. In the past, he’d always slept on his back, arms and legs spread as far as the mattress would support. James had made a joke of it the first time, saying no wonder Thomas needed such a monstrosity of a bed if he took up so much space. Thomas had just laughed and said a big bed had benefits and proceeded to instruct him on many of them. But now, Thomas was curled up on the very edge as if the mattress was three feet wide instead of seven.

Troubled, James opened the armoire and took out a clean shirt. He spied Miranda’s dresses hanging on their hooks, right where she’d left them. He touched one, a green print with yellow flowers. Beside it hung the pale yellow that he had liked, but she said was far too frivolous for a widow. He closed the door and, mood thoroughly dampened, he went to get his papers and the candle.

He sat at the desk and began to write.

He worked until the small hours, writing letters to Eleanor, Billy, Rogers and even Silver. Thomas slept soundly the entire time, never moving, only occasionally muttering words too low and indistinct to understand though James paused in his writing to listen every time.

He’d just finished a third postscript in his letter to Billy, when Thomas jolted, his entire body jerking involuntarily. He lashed out, hitting nothing but air, rolling to his back with the force of his futile blow. James dropped his quill and went to his side.

Thomas was awake, his eyes mere slits.

“Thomas?” James said.

With a hitch of his breath, Thomas blinked and then again, rubbing his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Thomas turned his head to look at James.

“Bad dream?”

Still mute, Thomas nodded.

“Of this Jenkins?

Again, Thomas nodded, only this time he gave James a faint, wry smile as if apologizing for either his fears or the trouble.

“Move over.”

Without hesitation, Thomas moved over and then rolled to his side.

James got under the covers and was up against Thomas, arm over his waist. Thomas made a deep sound of satisfaction and pulled his arm tighter. He kissed the back of Thomas’s neck, expecting Thomas’s shiver, receiving it.

He’d always loved that, that he could make Thomas shiver and sigh and groan. During those first few months, he would watch avidly while making love to Thomas, taking in every movement, every smile, every frown. It had been heady and enlightening, Thomas’s enjoyment increasing his own.

Remembering, he kissed Thomas again, this time on the back of his ear.

“I like that,” Thomas finally spoke.

“I know you do.”

“Are you finished with your work?”

“Not quite. I still need to make a schedule for the _Walrus_ in case her new captain needs it.”

Thomas nodded and then brought James’s hand to his lips; he kissed his fingers. “You smell nice.”

“There’s a women here who makes soap with lavender.”

“I haven’t bathed in over a week.”

“Do you think I care?”

“I’ve seen the state of your men; I know you don’t.”

He stifled his snort of laughter against Thomas’s neck. “When I got my first crew, I was hard pressed not to request a bath every week, but then I got used to it, like so many things; and there was always the sea.”

“What else did you have to get used to?”

“Always being hungry, no fresh water, bugs, rats.” It was hard to remember those times—he’d been Flint for so long. “Never knowing what was coming my way, always being on the lookout for saboteurs, mutineers.”

“I thought that was the whole point of the prizes, to make your men happy.”

“The men are never happy.”

“Were _you_ every happy?”

“Happy?” He had to think for a moment. “I don’t know. I think I lived in a state of perpetual watchfulness that made room for nothing else.” That wasn’t quite true, but Thomas didn’t need to know that.

“It sounds as if you were afraid to stop and realize where you were.”

He thought about that. “That’s true. I remember one time at Port Royal, back in ‘07 before I had the _Walrus,_ I gave the men leave for the day. Mr. Gates and I, along with a crew of five, were the only ones left on board.” He closed his eyes. “The air was so calm and the sky was so blue. Even with the gulls, it was so quiet. I brought a book up to the quarterdeck and read there all afternoon. It was as if I existed as only myself in those hours. It was the most peaceful time I’d ever had. Well,” he smiled, adding, “except for every time with you and most times with Miranda.”

“I see,” Thomas said quietly.

“Don’t be sad—I’ve been happy; I will be again.”

“I think that will be _my_ perpetual state.”

“What?”

Thomas kissed his fingers again, this time biting his thumb. “Making you happy.”

It had to be a sin to feel this euphoric, this ecstatic, and he pressed his lips to Thomas’s neck again and again, a helpless reaction to rusty joy.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Realizing there is a need for caution and that Abigail is across the hall…” Thomas looked over his shoulder. “We won’t have this opportunity for many days; I don’t want to waste a moment.”

“Are you certain?” Not twenty-four hours since they’d been here on this same bed—what had changed?

Thomas being Thomas, knew what he was thinking. “I am. It was that one time. I doubt I’ll have the same reaction.”

“What if you do?”

“What if I don’t?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Thomas stopped him by squeezing his hand. “You spent the last decade finding adventure after adventure. I spent the last decade in a fog, finding nothing. Let’s find this together. If I have the same response, we’ll try something else or wait and try again.” Thomas’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t want to be afraid of you.”

“And you’re certain?” he asked again.

“As I said.”

“Let me lock the door.”

“And close the window.”

He did both, shedding his clothes at the same time. When he was naked, he folded his clothes up and placed them next to Thomas’s. He turned. Thomas had rolled to his back, one arm over his head, watching with bright eyes. “What is so amusing?” he said.

“You,” Thomas murmured. “The fearsome Captain Flint; you couldn’t be more eager.”

He cracked a smile; he was unaccountably nervous and he reminded himself that this was hardly their first time; he knew what pleased Thomas and what didn’t. He went to the bed and sat on the edge.

Thomas reached for his hand and tugged him down.

_‘Certain’,_ Thomas had said but James found he wasn’t, and he pulled the sheet down, slowly unbuttoning Thomas’s smallclothes, pausing at the last button.

“James, I am not bothered.”

“I know.”

“You started this.”

“I know.”

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I _know_ , Thomas.”

“Oh, for goodness—” Thomas pushed James’s hands out of the way and pulled his smallclothes off. He threw them on top of the sheets and lay back.

And here they were again, less than twenty-four hours later but it was different. Thomas was watching him with clear, hot eyes, arms outstretched. The candle cast its light over his body, coloring his skin and hair a soft gold; he was entirely beautiful, entirely desirable.

“Well?”

Ridiculous. He’d made love to Thomas dozens of times under any manner of circumstances—angry, tired, frustrated, happy… This was no different from any of those.

Thomas sighed. “James?”

“Yes?”

“It’s time for something else.” Thomas held out his hand. “Come here.”

Feeling more than a little like an inexperienced youth, he let Thomas pull him up, let him rearrange him so that he was lying on his back.

“Now,” Thomas said, sliding on top, “we are going to keep this simple and try something I know you like. I am going to prove to you that I’m not the fragile thing you so obviously think me.”

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t—”

Thomas stopped his words again, this time with his lips, nudging his mouth open with his tongue. “You were saying?”

He blinked. “I can’t remember.” A lie of sorts but the worry was fading away. It was true—he’d always loved this, having Thomas on top of him, his weight pressing him into the mattress. He spread his legs and bent his knees. He pushed up.

Thomas closed his eyes and rubbed up against him like a cat. “See? Simple.”

He stretched and kissed Thomas’s neck. Thomas’s cock was firming against his own and that meant Thomas had been right and there was no need for caution, yes? “You’re in a fine mood for a man on the run,” he murmured.

Thomas stilled. “I suppose I am a fugitive of sorts, aren’t I?”

“How does it feel?”

“Sadly, no different from being a man without a name.”

He reached between their bodies and touched the tip of Thomas’s cock. “And now?”

Thomas sighed and closed his eyes part way. “Still the same. You should try harder.”

He snorted softly, then did as he was told. “And now?” He slid his hand down and stroked Thomas’s cock, making a sheath of his fingers, finding an instant reaction.

Thomas grabbed his arm and arched, moaning loudly, _“James_!”

“ _Hush!”_

“James!” Thomas repeated, this time in a whisper.

He’d remembered so much, but he’d forgotten this, forgotten how it was to bed Thomas. Serious only some times, Thomas made love with a joy and humor that had no time for inhibitions or shame. “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured.

“Show me,” Thomas challenged softly. “Show me how much.”

Thomas rubbed up against him again, but James stopped him with a soft, “Push up.” Thomas raised himself and, slowly, wanting to see every moment of Thomas’s joy, he grabbed the other pillow and stuffed it under his head.

“James?”

He wrapped his hand around Thomas’s thigh and tugged. “Up,” he ordered, pulling harder until Thomas was on his knees, partly straddling his chest, their arms and legs an awkward tangle. He’d never been fond of this act, thinking privately that only true buggers enjoyed it. But now, looking at Thomas’s face, his flushed skin and straining cock, he thought it was time he got used to it.

Thomas swallowed. “You’ll choke.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

He ignored that. “You’ll need to hold on to the headboard so it doesn’t hit the wall. We don’t want to wake Abigail.”

“James, I don’t think—”

He licked the head of Thomas’s cock

Thomas gasped and grabbed the headboard, giving an involuntary thrust.

The angle was all wrong and his purchase was poor. “Thomas,” he whispered, “help me.”

Thomas swallowed again, and put his hand over James’s; together they guided his cock into James’s mouth.

“Jesus,” Thomas swore softly and then again, his eyes closing. “ _Jesus.”_

It wasn’t perfect; _he_ wasn’t perfect but it was intoxicating, being a thing used for Thomas’s pleasure and just the thought sent a thrill of fire up his spine. He groaned, not intentionally, and Thomas curled over him with a small cry, gripping his hand tight.

Thomas said something too garbled to hear and then warm fluid spilled into James’s mouth. Before he could stop Thomas, he pulled free.

He didn’t choke though it was a near miss and he swallowed and swallowed again.

Thomas stayed there for a moment, still holding the headboard, eyes closed as if in pain, breath coming fast and ragged. James stared, memorizing his pose, the arch of his back, his empty hand curled on his thigh. So beautiful.

And then Thomas sighed deeply and then let go of the headboard. James was ready—sitting up, he brought Thomas to him, then settled back down, Thomas resting on his chest.

“I’ll get the rag,” Thomas muttered.

“It can wait.”

“You don’t like it when—”

He stroked Thomas’s damp temples. “It can wait.”

Thomas sighed. “What about you?”

He kissed the top of Thomas’s head. “It can wait.”

***

He couldn’t sleep but he had to sleep, a conundrum that fogged his mind and he kept thinking it, _Sleep, don’t sleep, sleep, don’t—_

“You can sleep. I’ll wake you.”

He opened his eyes. He was still on his back, one hand on his chest. Thomas was awake, propped up on his elbow, holding one of his documents. He’d put on his shirt as well as lit two wall scones and replaced the candle by the bed. “I think I was asleep.”

Thomas nodded and dropped the paper. “On and off; you should rest. You deserve it.” He stroked a strand of hair off James’s cheek. “That was delightful.”

Thomas had a long scratch on the side of his thumb. James gestured; Thomas held out his hand, palm up. “Did I do that?” he asked, examining the shallow wound.

“No. That headboard has seen better days.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? A splinter in exchange for you? It was bargain, to my mind.” Thomas smiled and gave James a long, slow look. “You never used to enjoy that.”

James rolled to his side and tucked his hand under the pillow. “I’ve changed.”

Thomas leaned over him. “So I see.”

They kissed, then pulled away at the same time. James nodded to the sheet of paper. “What do you think?”

Thomas picked it up. “I think you missed your calling. You would have made a fine governor or administrator.”

“Be serious, Thomas.”

Thomas raised his eyebrow. “I am. Without being privy to the negotiations, I can say that you’ve set out a reasonable and practicable means to achieve Nassau’s independence, and one that meshes quite nicely with Miss Guthrie’s plans.”

“However?”

Thomas put the paper down. “There is no ‘however,’ my dear. Why are you looking for censure where there is none?”

He frowned. “I wasn’t.”

“Perhaps ‘looking’ was the wrong word but why would you ever assume I wouldn’t be giving the whole of my thoughts?”

He hesitated. “I think it’s because I’m not used to anyone’s approval of my plans.”

“Perhaps that’s because you share so little of them?” When he gave Thomas a dark look, Thomas shrugged. “I’m not prescient, I just know you.”

“There was no opportunity for a committee, Thomas. Not then.”

“I understand, I do.”

“Then what is this?”

Thomas said nothing for a moment and then he sighed. “ _This_ is nothing, James. _This_ was a simple comment stating my appreciation for one of your many skills.”

He sighed and rolled to look up at the ceiling. His neck ached and he rubbed it absentmindedly. “Do you think I can ever stop?”

“Stop what?”

He glanced at Thomas. “Fighting. Miranda said that was my only state of being.”

“What do you think?”

He hesitated, then said grudgingly, “I think that she might have been right.”

“Then, my question is, do you _want_ to do anything about it?”

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“Exercise some control, learn to think before you speak.”

He answered before Thomas could finish, stung by the accusation, “I don’t have a problem with the latter, Thomas.”

Thomas nodded contritely. “You’re right. You always choose your words carefully. I am sorry.”

He made a face and turned on his side again. “Was that a lesson?”

Thomas nodded, this time not contritely. “One you’ve never quite learned and I think it’s connected with your need to be on top, to be the victor in all things.”

“And that is?”

“That it’s not a weakness to let others have their own opinion, James. It’s not a weakness to let go of that watchfulness you mentioned and allow another to watch for you. It’s quite the opposite.”

“Instruct me, my lord,” he muttered, only half in jest.

Thomas pursed his lips but only said, “When you step away from that wall you’re forever against, you are not throwing your heart and soul open to betrayal and mockery. You are, in actuality, holding yourself out for the other to see, saying, _‘This is who I am, my strength is allowing yours.’_ Cowardice and feebleness doesn’t enter into it.”

Thomas had spoken quietly but James felt words echo as if he’d been declaiming to a crowd.

“Well?” Thomas asked, after watching him for a moment.

“Well, what?”

“What do you think about that?”

“I think that I need to finish my work.”

Thomas nodded, as if he expected that answer.

“I really do, Thomas.”

“I know,” Thomas answered, still serene.

“Thomas,” he sighed. “You don’t know how it was out there. If had given any quarter, the men would have had me off the ship in an instant.”

“I understand.”

He sat up and said in a loud voice, almost shouting, “Damnation!”

“Hush!” Thomas whispered, his expression finally darkening.

He breathed deep. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas stroked his arm. “I know.”

“You might be right, too” he said slowly.

“It’s understandable.” Thomas sat up, as well. He wrapped an arm around James’s waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. “I think you’ve had to be many men. Or rather, you’ve had to show just the right face to whomever you were dealing with. An angry Flint seems to have been the easiest to inhabit as he was fueled by continual fury.”

The thought wasn’t new but it touched on a subject he’d thought resolved and he felt it again, as if he were pressing on a newly healed wound. “And this doesn’t concern you? That I might have trouble returning to McGraw?”

Thomas breathed a laugh and kissed his shoulder. “Not in the least. Everyone seems to see you differently; by your very words, you do, too. But I see only the one face, the one James.”

He covered Thomas’s hand with his own and turned his head, craning his neck to thank him with a kiss made tender by relief.

“And now,” Thomas said against James’s lips, his voice catching on a small yawn, “Do you need my help for anything?”

“No, I can manage.”

“Good. I’m done for,” Thomas murmured, eyes already closed. “You wore me out.”

He shouldn’t feel so pleased at that, but he did. “I’ll work here, if you don’t mind.”

Thomas settled on his back, snug against James’s hip. “I don’t mind.”

“The light won’t bother you?”

“You know it won’t.”

“Because I can—”

Without opening his eyes, Thomas reached down and pinched his thigh. “James.”

He grinned and retrieved the document half-hidden under Thomas’s back, then went to get his papers and quills and Miranda’s lap desk.

***

He sealed the last envelope just after the clock chimed four.

He put everything on the side table and was heading back to bed when he paused. If he got under those covers again he wouldn’t be able to resist staying and staying meant sleep followed most probably by lovemaking. He had no idea if Abigail was an early riser but Thomas was and given the option, Thomas had always preferred to make love by the light of the new sun.

Regretfully, he pulled on his breeches and shirt and bundled the rest up, then blew out the last candle.

He ended up in the kitchen berth. The bed linens were musty and smelled of smoke, but he’d slept in far worse conditions and was soon asleep.

***

He woke seamlessly from a dream of trying to paint black stuff on the hull of the Man o’ War grown a hundred times its real size. He grunted and turned over.

“What did I say?” came a voice he had no trouble recognizing. “Nine o’clock on the dot.”

He sat up and swung his legs over the berth. The air smelled of smoke and eggs. “That’s because of all my years on the forenoon watch.” He rubbed his face to rub away the sleep.

“As I said to Abigail not an hour ago.”

He looked over at Thomas and Abigail. They were sitting at the table.

“As neither Abigail nor I know the first thing about making a proper breakfast,” Thomas said, “we settled on eggs and the last of the pork. Yours is warming in the pot; a plate and fork are on the counter.”

He rose and picked up the lid, all of a sudden famished as if he hadn’t eaten in days. “Did you get enough?” he asked, tipping the mess onto his plate.

“We did and thank you for asking.”

He went to the table and sat down.

“Are they burned?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Ours, unfortunately, were. We had to make a second batch.”

Abigail giggled and James looked up, startled. Thomas and Abigail were sharing a glance full of confidences and it came to him that it was the first time he’d heard her laugh out loud.

He put his arm on the table. “I take it there’s a story here?”

“A small but humorous story.” Thomas turned to Abigail. “My dear?”

“It was so very funny,” she answered. “I was laughing so hard, I was afraid I would wake you, though Thomas said you’re like the dead once you’re truly asleep.”

He gave Thomas a speaking glance, then said, “What happened?”

Abigail sat up straight, as if preparing to recite a poem. “We knew you had worked late so we decided on a big breakfast to thank you for your efforts.” She glanced at Thomas. “We made a fire but Thomas put too much wood on it and it grew too hot and the eggs scorched.”

“My first mistake,” Thomas said, holding his finger up.

She folded her napkin and set it by her plate. “I went to crack more eggs only to discover that there were none. Thomas said we should visit the hen-house as the hens were sure to be laying.”

“My second mistake,” Thomas interjected with a smile and two fingers.

Abigail nodded. “As Thomas said, neither of us has much skill in this type of thing; we thought the chickens would just get up and give us their eggs.”

“Which they did not,” Thomas added.

“Thomas finally decided to reach under the hens but he accidently bumped one and she made such a fuss that all the other hens began squawking and pecking at us.”

“I did manage to gather four eggs before we were chased out,” Thomas said with mock indignation. “And yes, you have my leave to tell him the worst of it.”

“But the funniest part,” Abigail said, glancing at Thomas with glee, “was that when we were hurrying away from the hen-house, the rooster came after us.”

Thomas shook his head with patently false chagrin. “He’d been laying in wait, or so I believe. I have never been so terrified in all my life. He chased us up the porch and into the house. I had to drive him out with the broom.”

That set Abigail off and she laughed into her hand, her face red and her eyes shining.

James had stayed quiet the entire time. Yes, the story was humorous but he was taken more by the give and take of Thomas and Abigail’s retelling. Abigail’s expression was relaxed with no sign of the formality he’d always encountered. They almost seemed like father and daughter and for the first time, he could see the possibilities Thomas had mentioned. For the first time he thought, _‘This might work.’_

“James?” Thomas said softly.

He shook his head, pushing away his thoughts to concentrate on Abigail. “All this happened while I was asleep? Were you hurt?”

She shook her head. “My skirts protected me, but Thomas got several pecks on his legs.”

He frowned. “Chickens are verminous, Thomas. Did it break the skin?”

With a look, Thomas shook his head. “My stockings received most of the damage. I am unharmed.”

He nodded shortly, feeling a bit of a fool for his alarm, remembering the same from a week ago. Thomas was not going to die from a peck from a chicken or anything such thing. “Well,” he said, returning to his meal, “when we have time, I’ll show you how to properly steal an egg from a stubborn hen.”

“While you’re at it, you can also instruct us how to cook. It’s a skill both of us need.”

Abigail nodded. “My education thus far has been lacking in the practical things. If I’m to live in Carolina, I need to learn how to ride a horse properly, how to cook, sew, and shoot a gun.”

James gave Thomas a sidelong glance, asking silently, _‘Did you put her up to this?’_

Thomas answered immediately, just as silent, ‘ _Of course not, but she’s right—she must know these things.’_

Abigail hadn’t missed the exchange and she said quietly, “I realize that a proper young lady leaves those occupations to others but I don’t want to be a proper young lady. I want to be more than that. I want to be like Miranda and Eleanor.”

Touched, he reached across the table and clasped her hand briefly. “I can think of no better examples. When we get to Carolina and are settled, I will teach you how to use a sword. Thomas will teach you to ride and shoot for he is far better at both than I.”

Thomas’s eyes grew soft and he touched James’s shin under the table with his shoe.

He cleared his throat. “As to sewing and cooking, my skills are rudimentary at best. We will hire a tutor and she will further your education in those areas. Is that acceptable?”

Abigail’s smile had returned. “Very.”

“And now, Abigail,” Thomas said, standing up, “you and I will wash the dishes while James finishes his breakfast. Then we will go through the house and gather any of Miranda’s keepsakes.” He picked up his plate and glass. “What are your plans?”

“I need to ride into Nassau. I’ll be gone all day, possibly into the next.” He almost dreaded saying the latter but Thomas just nodded calmly.

“I thought as much. If you can arrange it, can you send something for supper? I’m done with eggs for the time being.”

“I’ll get a roasted chicken from one of Eleanor’s girls.”

“Make it a rooster,” Thomas said pleasantly.

Even James laughed at that.

***

He was in the bedroom knotting his sash when the door opened and Thomas slipped in.

“Abigail is in the garden, weeding.” Thomas closed the door.

“I was going to hire a man to take care of that.”

“Yes, but this way we have a bit of privacy,” Thomas said. “Since the porch is no longer an option.”

James smiled and held his arms. Their embrace wasn’t so much an embrace of passion, he thought, as much as one of longtime lovers saying goodbye for the moment.

“If you’re to be gone longer than two days, will you send word?” Thomas asked.

“Yes,” he answered, though he wasn’t sure if he could.

“We’ll be ready to leave when you return.”

“I’ll bring an extra cart but I’m not sure I’ll have a ship by then.”

“I’ve told Abigail much the same. She knows our schedule is to be decided.” Thomas pushed back away. “James?”

“Yes?”

“Abigail cares very much for Mr. Manderly.”

“Yes.”

“By that I mean she’s in love with him.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite.”

“Is there a problem?” he asked with a frown and instant irritation. “Billy may be rough but he’s a fine—”

Thomas kissed him, giving it a moment before saying, “I have decided that the only way to snap you out of any ill-humor is to kiss you senseless. A practice, if you will, in the application of cause to effect.”

He wanted to retain his irritation but it was gone.

“See?” Thomas said with an impertinent grin. “It’s already working. I am hoping we will need to practice regularly.”

He snorted softly. “What were you saying about Billy?”

“I was going to say that we’ll need to take care. If you can possibly arrange for him to be gone when we get to Nassau, that might be best.”

He thought about it, then nodded, reluctantly pulling free of Thomas’s arms to reach for his belt. “Abigail won’t thank you for it.”

“Most likely not. She and I have talked about it, though not directly. With the upheaval in her life, I want to establish a calm place for her so that she can make important decisions with a clear mind. She’s not yet eighteen and needs more exposure to different kinds of people.”

“And Billy?”

“What about him?”

“If he cares as much for her as she for him, would it be right to separate them?”

“At her age, yes,” Thomas said firmly. “The sea ages men before their time, but I imagine he’s not yet thirty.”

“Twenty-seven, I believe.”

“At twenty-seven, he’s barely begun his life. Who knows where he’ll end up.”

James nodded slowly, finishing with his belt. He picked up his baldric and slung it over his head. “Very well, I’ll do what I can to keep them apart.”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime, please make sure—”

“Thomas?”

They both turned at the sound of Abigail’s voice down the hall.

Thomas gave him a regretful smile. “I’ll see what she needs.” He went to the door. “What were you going to say?”

“If Lambrick returns to bother you in anyway, just hold him off until I get here. Use the pistol, if you need to.”

“It won’t come to that.”

He gave Thomas a look from under his brow. “See that it doesn’t.”

Thomas hesitated, then nodded, saying with sudden gravity, “I will.”

***

It was early afternoon when he arrived in Nassau and the beaches and streets teamed with people. Not all of them were locals. He recognized the bosun and ship master from the _Curaço_ —if the Dutch were sneaking in, that meant the political climate was changing faster than he’d anticipated.

He rode through the crowd, finally forced to dismount near Eleanor’s place. He’d never seen the town so busy and he wondered if it was due to news of the gold or the pardons. It was just as well he was getting out—his old Nassau was one thing, this new Nassau was quite another.

The tavern was also crowded, almost every seat full. He glanced about for Eleanor and couldn’t find her. One of her girls was serving a tray of ale to five drunk men; she caught his glance and nodded towards the ceiling. He shouldered his satchels and made his way to the stairs.

When he got to her door, he knocked for formality’s sake before opening it. She wasn’t at her desk or the window.

“What now?” she called out. “I told you I was leaving immediately!”

“Where are you going?” he asked, finally finding her in the alcove. She’d been getting dressed and was pulling on her jacket.

She sighed. “Out looking for you. I’m assuming by your question that you haven’t heard.”

Any sense of calm he might have been feeling fled at the tone of her voice, the look in her eye. He dropped the satchels on the chair by the door. “Heard what? What happened?”

“Fucking Hornigold happened, that’s what.”

“He’s back?”

She nodded and hurried to her desk and opened the drawer where she kept her weapons. “My man on Harbor Island just returned with some very bad news.”

“And that is?”

She pulled out a flintlock and examined it. “It seems that old viper has one last fang left in him.” Satisfied, she looked up. “Somehow he convinced both Rogers and Hennessey that you are not necessary to the success of the treaty. With their approval and a letter of marque, he’s gone from pirate to pirate hunter and you’re to be his first prize. He’ll be here by sundown with  a handful of men in the hopes of catching you at night.”

He leaned on one of her chairs, gripping the back so hard the wood creaked. “I thought you had one of your spies on Hornigold?”

“I did. I haven’t heard from him since he left for Port Royal. What of Stocks?”

He shook his head. “I’ve had no word.” He glanced up. “And Dufresne?”

She hesitated, saying shortly, “I don’t know where he is, either.”

“What about my men? Does Hornigold have free rein with them, as well?”

“At the moment it’s just you.” She shrugged. “I think your challenge to Hennessey on the _Royal Sovereign_ is having the intended results—he’s had seven attempted mutinies since then, five of which were successful. He’s out for you blood.”

“I pity the other two,” he muttered, then asked the only question that mattered, “And Thomas? Are they coming for him, too?”

She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I don’t know, but it is likely so. James?”

She rarely called him by his first name and he prepared himself. “Yes?”

“My man has been keeping an eye out on Lieutenant Pickram as you asked; he’s been seen with Hornigold at the King’s Head tavern. I think it was he that—”

He picked up the chair, then slammed it down again, almost grateful when one of the legs gave. “And you didn’t think to warn me?”

She had jumped when he’d slammed the chair but hadn’t retreated. “I didn’t have time! I only just heard!”

He flung the chair away and went to the window. He glanced down at the street, using the curtain for cover. The street was still full but he saw nothing suspicious and no one lurking in any corner. “I came here to tell you something.”

“You’re leaving for good.”

He looked over his shoulder. “How did you know?”

“I told you—I’ve been waiting for that news for days and days.”

He nodded and stroked his beard, thinking furiously. “The only thing that matters is Thomas and Abigail. They need to leave as soon as possible. I can wrap my business up within the hour, but I have an errand that might take as many as two days. If Pickram and Hornigold are after me, I can’t put it off.” Down below stood Captain Aaldenberg’s quartermaster. If the _Craay_ was also anchored in the harbor, perhaps Aaldenberg could be convinced to ferry Thomas and Abigail as far as Charles Town. He and James weren’t friends but at least they weren’t enemies.

“I might be able to help you with the first of your problems.”

“And how will you do that?”

“By enlisting the aid of the _Swift Jane,_ ” came a voice from the door.

He turned to find Charles Vane lounging against the doorframe. “No.”

Eleanor sighed. “Flint—”

“No!” he said again, this time shouting. “Do you think I’d trust him within an inch of Abigail after what he did?”

Vane pushed away from the door and came closer. “Tell her what you’re really concerned about.”

“What are you talking about? Tell her, what?”

“Tell her that you don’t trust me with him, with Lord Hamilton.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “This has nothing—”

“Nothing to do with him? Of course it does. Everything you’ve done since you and I met has something to do with him in one way or another.” Vane sat on the edge of the desk. “But you needn’t worry; Lord Hamilton has no fortune and therefore I have no interest in him. It will, however cost you.”

He hesitated once more, hearing: ‘ _You will finish up what you need and then we will find the earliest ship,’_ and, ‘ _You will leave this place with me.’_ He hadn’t promised Thomas they’d adhere to any specific plan of action, but he’d accepted his terms and that was much the same thing. “Why would you do that?”

Vane crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s put it this way—I am in your debt for Eleanor. I despise being in anyone’s debt, most especially yours.” Vane’s smirk faded and his voice dropped, “I promise upon my life that I will deliver Lord Hamilton and Abigail Ashe to Carolina safely. I promise upon my life that not one of my crew will look sideways at them. I promise you this.”

James had listened with narrowed eyes, looking for the catch that would prove Vane’s words false but could find none.

“Flint?” Eleanor said quietly. “I promise as well.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “It’s the best solution. I enlisted Mr. Scott’s help; you probably passed him on the way here. He’ll fetch Ekene and together, they will take Thomas and Abigail to the cove to meet up with the _Swift Jane.”_

He should be angry at her high-handedness but he found himself only grateful at her quick action. “Very well. How much?”

Vane smiled. “One thousand pounds. Each.”

Eleanor drew a quick breath. “Charles!”

It was over two hundred times what a normal merchant ship would charge, but James nodded. “It’s a fair price for the danger they will face. I’ll have it to you before I leave.” He turned to Eleanor. “I need to speak with you privately.”

She nodded, still frowning. “Charles?”

Vane twisted his lips but left without another word.

Eleanor sat down at her desk. “I’m assuming you have instructions for the rest of the negotiations.”

He picked up his satchels and gave them to her. “I have and more.” He hesitated, then grabbed a chair and dragged it around the side to sit before her. “Eleanor, I can’t leave here without knowing the crew is in good hands. I’ve written several proposals, detailing who I’d recommend as next captain.”

“And that is?”

“William Manderly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Billy?”

He nodded. “He’s untried in several areas but he’s a good sailor, and he’s smart, but most important, the men love him. He’ll need help, though, and I’m asking if you can guide him, should he require it. It might be that he ends up leaving the life altogether but just in case…”

“You think he will?”

“I think with the gold in his pockets, his opportunities have expanded. He’s smart enough to examine them carefully.”

She nodded after a moment. “I’ll help him, if he needs it.”

“He might get some competition from Silver; how that will end up is anyone’s guess.”

“I’ll keep an eye out on both.”

“As to the men…” He laid his hand on the topmost satchel, the one that held his most important documents. “I’ve long realized that no matter what I do, they will spend their portion within the year, if not sooner.” He shrugged. “It’s their nature.”

She nodded her agreement.

“To that end, I’m taking the chest and hiding it.”

“Where?”

He unfastened the satchel and pulled out the map he’d drawn. He gave it to her. “It’s an island south of Watlings. Men used to call it Skeleton Island due to its dangerous cliffs. No one goes there anymore, though I’ve explored it several times.”

She tipped her head. “To use as a bolt hole?”

He nodded and bent over the map. It was only useful for those who knew the waters as well as he; he’d taken care not to add too many obvious markers. “Around the south side is a cave, see?” He pointed to the indentation he’d drawn. “Approach from the west or you’ll never see it. At low tide it’s an easy walk in and out. I’ll put the chest on a shelf high above the waterline; you’ll need a lantern.”

“Why go through all this trouble?” she asked, tracing her finger along the route. “Why not keep it here?”

“Forgive me, Eleanor,” he said ruefully, “but you were deposed once; it could happen again. The gold isn’t safe on Nassau.”

She sat back, giving him a long look. And then she sighed. “You’re right. I believe my position here is solid, but who knows what the future will bring.”

“Precisely. This way, I can be assured that the gold ends up in the right hands. As to the location, the island is far enough that someone will have to work to get it.”

“Do you have a contingency if something happens to me?”

He nodded. “In my letter to Billy, I’ve noted that he can expect an inheritance from you; that inheritance, of course, will be the—”

“Map,” she interrupted softly. “What do you want me to do with the money, should any of the men require it?”

“Initially, I thought to invest most of it so they could draw on it quarterly but there are so many issues with that, I gave up the idea as impractical.” He put the map away. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Once you hide the chest, then where will you go?”

“Hornigold knows well my distrust of Port Royal so I’ll go there first. I’ll find a ship and buy passage to Carolina.”

The gaps in his plan were big enough to put his fist through, but Eleanor just said, “Anything else I need to know?”

“No.”

She stuffed the letters and map into a drawer and locked it. She stood up and lit a lantern. “Let’s get the chest.”

He picked up one of the satchels and followed her out the door and down the hall to a small room at the end.

When he’d asked her if he could keep the chest with her for the time being, she’d told him of the room. During her father’s time, it had been used to quarter his series of mistresses, though she hadn’t realized that at the time—she’d thought they’d been maids. Now, she used it for her linens.

The room was shelved on either side with a small table at the end. The only decoration was an innocent tapestry hanging on the back wall.

Eleanor put the lantern on a shelf, then closed the door. She lifted the tapestry, revealing an unpainted section of the brick wall and gestured. “After you.”

He removed the bricks, one by one, until the chest was exposed.

With a grunt, he lifted it out and placed it on the table. The table groaned under the weight but held. He bent to examine the chest. As a security measure, he’d tucked a black feather in the corner so that just its edge was exposed. It was in the same position, shivering lightly at his touch.

“Do you need something to conceal it?”

“No.” He undid the clasps and pushed the lid up. “Have one of your men bring my horse to the garden and I’ll use the back stairs.” He got out the documents and book and laid them aside. The gold shone dully in the soft light. “Eleanor?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Could you do me another favor?”

“What is it?”

“Would it be possible for you to go with Vane? Just to the cove? I don’t have time to write a letter but I’d like Thomas to know—” He broke off, angry that the words got trapped in his throat.

She nodded. “I will. I’ll tell him this wasn’t your choice. I’ll ensure he and Abigail have everything they need and that they’re comfortable.”

“Give him this.” He took off the signet ring and handed it to her. “Tell him it’s my promise to him that I’ll follow him to the island. He’ll know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

He picked up a handful of coins and calculated the amount he’d need. He gave her all but four. “Those are for Vane and his men.” He held up the other four. “Two are for you in case you run into any trouble, two are for Thomas.”

“I’ll get them exchanged,” she said, taking the coins and putting them in her pocket. “It’s too obvious where they came from; no gently bred Englishman would be carrying them.”

He hadn’t thought about that and he nodded. “Good idea.” He latched the chest, then put the documents and book into the satchel. He gave it to Eleanor with a soft, “Can you take this?” then hefted the chest to his shoulder and they were off again, this time to the back stairs.

They met no one on the stairs or as they crossed the deep kitchen garden that divided the tavern from the open stables. When they got to the stables, he dropped the chest on a bale of hay.

Eleanor gave him the satchel. “I’ll have Morris bring your horse immediately.”

She’d only gotten a few steps when he called out, “Wait!”

She paused in the doorway, half in the light, half out.

Regardless of their varying tempers and points of view, she had been his partner in an adventure few would believe and most wouldn’t have survived. All said, he could give a fuck if he ever saw his crew again but he was going to miss her. They had seen so much together, survived so much together; it was impossible that he might never see her again. “I—” He shook his head, unable to say what he wanted.

She swallowed and rushed into his arms.

“This isn’t the last time,” she said fiercely, her voice muffled by his coat. “I promise you that.”

“I’ll send word once we’re settled.”

She squeezed him tighter. “If you don’t, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

He gave a little laugh that wasn’t quite steady; she drew back. Her eyes were wet with tears and he kissed her forehead. “I’m already afraid.”

She smiled weakly, then let him go and hurried away, scrubbing at her face.

“So,” he said, nodding once as he watched her go, needing a moment to gather himself. This was happening; his days as a pirate were done. He was leaving Nassau and his old self forever.

The last time such a cataclysmic shift had taken place it had been forced upon him by three men, determined to see his end. Now, it was being forced by one, only this time—and he sent a silent _mea culpa_ heavenward to Miranda—he wasn’t going alone, this time he wasn’t going to _be_ alone.

He took a deep breath and nodded. So.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_New Providence Island_

 

Thomas shook his head, staring up at the cupboard full of dishes and curios. He touched the side of a porcelain sugar bowl. “Remarkable.”

Abigail was trying to pack Miranda’s clock; she stopped and came to his side. “Are they very expensive?”

“Yes. And very rare. We had nothing like them in London. Or rather, we had them but we never used them. They were far too unique for even special occasions. They were given as a wedding gift.” He picked up the bowl and examined it closer. The fluted edge was trimmed with gold, the sides and insides decorated with poppies and some other type of flower he didn’t recognize.

“Did Captain Flint give them to her?”

“It might be best to call him ‘James’ from here on out, and yes, I think that is the only possibility.” He put the bowl back on the shelf. “I don’t know what to do with these. We can’t take them with us. We don’t have the means to pack them in the manner that will ensure their safe arrival.”

“It seems silly to take such care to bring something we’ll never use.”

He blinked, then smiled at her unconscious ‘we.’ “My dear, you are exactly right.” He shut the cabinet door. “We will take only the things of sentimental value and the things we can use. The rest can be shipped later.”

“Like the clock?” Abigail asked hopefully.

“Yes, like the clock. Did you get the book?”

Abigail didn’t have to ask which book he meant and she nodded. “It’s in my portmanteau. I didn’t want to put it with the others.”

“Good thinking. I’m going to finish up in Miranda’s room. I believe there is a crucifix in your room—could you get it for me?”

“May we eat after that?”

He paused at the door. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

“Already? We have been busy, haven’t we?” He turned to her. It was hot in the house. He’d long since removed his waistcoat and stock, and Abigail had rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s finish the soup from last night—it will be just as good cold as hot.”

She smiled and wiped one shiny cheek with the back of her hand. “Can we eat outside under the trees again?”

“We can. I’ll get everything together, you go splash some water on your face.”

She did as he suggested. He went to the kitchen and went to the small trap door in the corner of the room to retrieve the soup from Miranda’s clever cold storage.

It was just as well they were stopping for the moment, he thought has he lifted the pot. Packing up many of the things had been easy—he’d slipped the portrait into a crate with no qualms and little caution. Miranda’s personal things, her jewelry, hair combs and clothes had been something else.

Holding the pendant he’d given her on their second anniversary, he had struggled for the memory, finally finding it.

His father, then still somewhat taken with Miranda, had suggested pottery and offered up the Delft tea tray that had been in the family for nearly a century. Thomas had politely declined, wanting to give her something more meaningful to thank her for the happiness she’d given him as well as the forbearance she’d shown him. He’d gone to his jeweler and purchased a cameo pendant and earrings from a French maker fashioned of silver from the New World and black spinel from India.

When she’d opened the box, her face had brightened. She had held the pendent up to the light, exclaiming at its beauty. From then on, whenever she wanted to impress someone, she wore the set.

It had made him smile, that memory.

“It must be a happy thought,” Abigail said, coming into the kitchen.

“It is, indeed, though a sad one.” He hesitated, a newborn thought coming on the heels of the old. “My dear…” He turned and took Abigail’s hands. “I’ve no daughters to pass on any of Miranda’s things; I’d like to give the spinel and garnet sets to you.”

She frowned. “But you’re not old, you might have children of your own someday.”

He hid a smile at her assumptions and shook his head. “I will not.”

“But—”

“My dear, even if I wanted to, I would not. I have no wish to pass on my father’s bloodline.”

She hesitated, then gave him a weak smile. “I would love to have them; when I have a daughter, I will give them to her.”

He pulled her in for a swift embrace and then let her go to finish fixing their meal.

***

They spread a blanket under the trees near the garden and ate. After, he lay back to watch the leaves move above while Abigail read more Milton.

He was almost asleep when she asked, “Thomas?”

“Hmm?”

“You mentioned your father’s bloodline—”

“What about it?”

“Can one pass on evil through blood. I mean, from mother to child?”

He opened his eyes. She was no longer reading, but sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, the book at her side. “Are you worried about your father and his deeds?”

She nodded.

Contrite, he sat up. He had to fix this and he had to fix it now. “As far as I know, blood is just blood and carries no specific character traits. It’s just an expression.”

“Oh.”

“Give me your hand.” She looked at him but did as he asked. “My father, from the time I knew him, was not a pleasant individual. Your father, on the other hand, was smart, generous and friendly. If he did go astray it wasn’t due to bad blood, if there is such a thing.” He squeezed her hand. “James once said that isolation and power over other men could lead to corruption and in your father’s case, he was right.”

“Then, my father isn’t evil for what he did?”

“He was wrong but not evil. The Peter I knew growing up was much different.” He was stretching the truth so hard he feared it would snap. “I am sorry to have worried you. I suppose the long and short of it is that no, I would not be concerned about having children if it came down to it.”

This time, it was she that squeezed. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

She smiled and pulled free, then picked up the book. “Would you like me to read to you?”

He lay back again, resting his head on his folded arms. “Above all things.”

“I’m on the second book.” She found her place and then cleared her throat. “ _Thus they out of their plaints new hope resume to find whom at the first they found unsought…”_

***

Milton and Abigail revived his good mood and when they returned to the house, he gathered the rest of Miranda’s effects quickly with no undue emotion. He had added the last crate to the others by the door and was wiping his forehead with his sleeve when Abigail came out of the bedroom carrying her portmanteau.

“All finished?” he asked.

She nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought I had the chance to acquire so many new things, but my bag is noticeably heavier.”

He took it from her and sat it on the pile. “I think it’s the nature of a holiday, no matter the purpose.”

“Would you call the past few weeks a holiday?” she asked with a frown.

“Not in the slightest but we can amend that—shall we go down to the cove?”

She smiled. “Yes, please.”

“Then get Miranda’s sun hat and let’s be off.”

***

“Thomas! A fish just nibbled my toes,” Abigail called out with delight. “There it goes.” She darted after it, taking great strides through the shallow water.

He grinned, then went back to his perusal of the conch shell he’d found. It was about the size of his palm, its sides colored orange that faded to pure white. It was beautifully formed, like a spiral staircase, and he traced the path of the cone top down and around to its frilled bottom. So amazing to think it had housed some strange sea creature, so amazing to think of nature and all her variety.

He wanted to keep it but decided to return it home and had turned to throw it back into the sea when movement caught his eye.

Two men were coming down the hill. He couldn’t make out their faces, seeing only that they wore dark clothes and were moving fast.

“Abigail!” he called out, striding through the knee-high water to where his waistcoat and shoes lay. He hadn’t thought to bring the flintlock and damn him for his short-sidedness—James was going to have something to say about it if anything happened.

As it turned out, he needed no weapons. As soon as he reached solid sand, he recognized the lead man, just breaching the line of brush.

“Mr. Scott?” he called out. He didn’t recognize the big man behind Scott. “Is everything all right?”

Scott said something to the man who turned around and went back up the hill; Scott continued on towards Thomas.

“What is it?” Thomas said as soon as Scott got within earshot. “Is it James?”

Scott’s breath was short and shook his head. “I have been looking for you. You’re to leave the island immediately. Eleanor’s orders.”

All his happiness drained away. “Is James hurt?”

“No, but he will be if stays, as might you.”

“What happened?”

Scott looked out past the cove to the open ocean. Thomas followed his glance but could see nothing but a grey bank of clouds on the horizon. “What is going on?”

“The ship isn’t here; we have time.”

“We have time for what? What ship? What has _happened_?” Thomas asked again, this time with growing anger. Abigail joined them; she had untied her skirts and was holding her shells.

“It’s a long story.”

“Then condense it.”

Scott hesitated, then said, “One of Captain Flint’s enemies, a captain by the name of Hornigold, has conspired with a British soldier to convince those in power to renege on the promise of safe passage.”

“By ‘British soldier,’ I’m assuming you mean Lieutenant Pickram?”

“Yes, and the admiral.”

So, Hennessey was in on this, too. “They’re hunting him?”

Scott nodded once more. “I know Hornigold well. He hates no one more than Captain Flint and will do anything in his power to capture him.” Scott paused again, then said, “The admiral provided Hornigold with a letter of marque.”

“Damn them,” he growled. “Will they never stop?” Near the top of the hill, Scott’s man returned carrying two barrels on his shoulders.

“What is a letter of marque?” Abigail said.

Scott glanced at Thomas and Thomas said evenly, “A letter of marque is an official document stating that the holder can use whatever means necessary to seize an individual or property; in this case, James.”

Abigail clutched her shells but didn’t drop them. “And it allows this Captain Hornigold to detain Captain Flint?”

Thomas nodded. Scott’s man set the barrels on the sand and started back up the hill. “It also gives him free rein. With it, he can travel anywhere and snatch James without due process.” At her look of puzzlement, he added, “That means Captain Hornigold could take James from any foreign nation or hang him at sea without a proper trial, though that is unlikely to happen.” Scott frowned and Thomas looked away. It took no large imagination to picture the public’s anger over the pardons. Whitehall would jump at the chance to have on last execution to appease them, especially such well-known pirate as James.

“But, he’s helping them with the negotiations.” Abigail turned to Thomas. “That’s what you told me, that he was safe from reprisal because he’s helping Miss Guthrie with the negotiations.”

“Until last night, I thought it so. I had no idea a letter of marque had been issued.” A thought occurred to him and he frowned. “ _Did_ James know? Has he known all along?”

Scott considered it. “I do not see how. One of Miss Guthrie’s spies returned earlier to report that Hornigold was preparing to leave Harbor Island. It was certainly a surprise to her.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel as we’ve been through this many times before. Each time I think it’s done, we’re back to where we started.” He sighed again, then started to rub his jaw, only then remembering he was still holding the shell. “This ship you mentioned, is it the _Walrus?_ ”

Scott started to answer, then nodded in the direction of the ocean. “There she is.”

He turned. Around the point of the cove, closer than he would have thought safe, came a small ship. It seemed familiar but he wasn’t James—he couldn’t identify a ship just by glancing at it. He shaded his eyes. The crew was busy at the side, lowering a boat to the water. A ladder followed.“Is James on board?” Several people climbed down the ladder. “Is that Miss Guthrie?”

“I do not know where Captain Flint is, but that does indeed look like Eleanor. I had no idea she was making the journey.”

The sound of wood scraping on wood made him look around. Scott’s man had delivered three small crates while their backs were turned and had headed up the hill once more. “I take it we’re not going back to the house.”

“It would be best unless you left something there.”

He shook his head. This was happening all too fast, as if the world had suddenly tilted on its axis, tilting him along with it. “No,” he finally answered slowly. “I believe we’re ready. Abigail? Can you think of anything you might have missed?” The boat was halfway across the smooth, still water and yes, it was Eleanor with two crewmates.

“Did you bring my portmanteau?” Abigail said quietly. “It carries some very important documents.”

Scott nodded. “We did. Rest assured that Ekene will bring it shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Still feeling off, he watched as the boat came nearer. Eleanor was half-turned and even from the distance, he could see her worried expression. When the boat got some fifteen feet from the shore, she jumped out. She’d fastened her skirts about her, but even so, they caught at the water. Thomas and Scott hurried to her aid.

“Thank you,” she said as she took their hands. “We can’t come any closer or we’ll risk beaching her,” she said, wiping a strand of hair from her cheek. “Did Mr. Scott tell you what has happened?”

“Only that the world has gone mad again and James is being hunted.”

“It has and he is.” She glanced at Abigail, then smiled. “Why don’t you get in the boat? I need to talk with Thomas privately. We won’t be but a minute.”

With clear hesitation, Abigail pocketed her small stash of shells and then picked up her stockings and shoes. With the help of Scott, she waded out to the boat.

“Now,” Eleanor said, turning to Thomas, saying softly, “I know this is not what you want to hear so I’ll say it quickly: Flint isn’t coming with you, not at this time.”

Nodding because this wasn’t quite news, he said, “I thought as much. Did he perhaps give you a letter explaining this new development?”

“No. He hadn’t the opportunity.”

He nodded again.

“Are you angry?”

He smiled bitterly. “Very, though I know none of this is his doing.”

She stepped close. “It’s because of the gold, you see.”

He frowned. “I know all about the gold.”

“Not this gold, you don’t. Before Flint took the _Urca_ gold off the _Walrus_ and the _Colonial Dawn,_ he found a chest the Spanish had hidden near the _Urca’s_ wreck. In it was a book, three documents and over ten thousand pounds worth of gold.”

He closed his eyes briefly because he didn’t need to hear the rest. “James intends to use it for the men when they run out of their current funds.”

“Which,” she said wryly, “by the way they are spending it, will be sometime this month.”

Scott and Ekene were carrying the crates and barrels to the boat. “What is he going to do with it?”

“He’s going to cache it on an island. He’s drawn up a map.”

He nodded, remembering waking during the night to find James bent over a piece of paper, drawing a long line. He’d thought that a dream. He tossed the shell gently into the surf. “Once he’s buried this gold, what are his plans?”

“To get to Port Royal and hire a ship bound for Carolina. If all goes well, he’ll be two or three days behind you.”

He nodded again. “And this journey aboard the _Swift Jane?_ I’m assuming it’s back to Charles Town but as my assumptions where James is concerned have been quite off, so where are we to go?”

“Back to Carolina, to some island. He said you would know what he meant.”

“I do.”

“He also asked me to give you these things…” She pulled a small pouch from her skirt pocket and gave it to him, then drew a leather cord from around her neck. Attached to it was a very familiar ring. “The money’s purpose is obvious. The ring acts as his promise that he will be with you and Abigail soon.” She untied the cord and gave him the ring. “I have a parting gift for him on the ship as well as Abigail’s dresses.”

The ring was warm from Eleanor’s skin and he held it in his palm, his anger replaced by frustrated resignation. “Thank you.” He put it on.

“And now, if you’re ready, we should be off.”

He glanced around. Ekene had finished loading all their baggage in the boat. Scott said something to him and he turned and once more, went up the hill. “Are you coming with us?”

“No. Ekene will stay in the house to keep it safe until Flint figures out a more permanent solution. Mr. Scott will take me back to Nassau which leads me to my last bit of news.” She took a deep breath. “Flint has hired Captain Vane to take you to Carolina.”

Before he could think to object, she laid her hand on his arm. “I know what you’re thinking but you have my word that you will not be in any kind of danger. Charles will not harm or attempt to ransom either you or Abigail.”

He looked out at the ship; it was only his imagination that he thought he could see Vane on the deck. “Are you certain about that?”

“Charles is in love with me. He knows that if you are harassed in any way, Flint will come for him and then me. Therefore, Charles will do whatever it takes to make sure you arrive unharmed so that I will remain the same.”

Thomas frowned. “James would never hurt you.”

She gave him a wry look. “Flint would set the world on fire and count us all well lost if it meant keeping you from danger; I thought you knew that.”

He squinted at the bright sun. “He said something like that a few days ago; I thought he was speaking figuratively.”

“He was not.”

He nodded, then gazed at the beautiful aquamarine-colored water and the white sand and then at Abigail waiting out in the boat. He found himself unwilling to go. There was the danger to James, the need to return Abigail to her old life, to return to his. But his short time on the island suddenly seemed an unexpected gift, a release from loneliness and despair.

On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Miranda had given him a translation of Chinese poetry. Though he hadn’t agreed with all of the thoughts, many had echoed within his own soul. “‘ _A journey of a thousand miles starts under one’s feet,’”_ he murmured.

“Pardon?”

He smiled for he also remembered that journeys encompassed not only the going but also the coming back. As he’d said to James, all it took was the first step. “It was nothing, just the words of a poet.” He picked up his clothing, setting his shoes on top. “Eleanor?”

“Yes?”

He held out his hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done for James and me.”

She took his hand. “Without your plan, I wouldn’t have had Flint and without Flint, I wouldn’t have Nassau, my _true_ Nassau. I think it is I that should be thanking you.”

He nodded, and then pulled free of Eleanor’s light grip and turned to the sea. The water welcomed him warmly as he made large steps to the boat. One of Vane’s men gave him a hand, helping him in. He turned and looked back.

Eleanor and Scott stood on the shore. He waved; they waved back.

“Well,” he said, turning to Abigail. She was watching him with wide, serious eyes. He took her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “Once again, we are off.”

***

Their arrival on Vane’s ship was met with little ceremony. Vane lounged near the bow while his quartermaster silently showed them to the main cabin.

The cabin was small and not clean. There was no sign of occupancy, though; Vane had cleared his own things out leaving a shelf of books and a globe.

“At least we’re not in the hold,” Abigail said, as if attempting to cheer him up.

“At least we’re not.”


	5. The Faith of a Demon

Book V  
The Faith of a Demon

_........................................_

The first half of his journey had been rushed: gather his things from the _Walrus_ and the Man o’ War, steal a small sloop from under the drunken nose of Nate Browne of the _White Roan,_ then slip out of Nassau without notice to continue on to Skeleton Island with the chest.

He’d used every trick he knew to keep the sloop at top speed and he arrived at the island three hours before schedule. It was on the island that he’d had to slow his pace. He’d come ashore on the lee side when the tide was far too high and his path was covered by water. With nothing much else to do, he climbed the hill above the cove and sat down to wait.

Skeleton Island had a fearsome name but it was nothing more than a massive hillock of black stone covered with sand and low growing plants. It did, however, provide a clean view of the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. One knee up, he crossed his arms around his leg and rested his chin on his arm. A dark storm was moving west some fifteen miles away, a twin to the one that had passed the day before. He trusted that wherever the _Swift Jane_ was, she was steering clear.

It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d left the house. By now, Thomas and Abigail were well on their way to Carolina. Hopefully, Thomas would have had time to make peace with the fact that he’d had no option but to send them off alone. Thomas was never quick to anger but when roused to it, it could take him days, even weeks to recover. And in this, Thomas would be right to be angry with him—he’d been a fool for taking Hennessey at his word.

With the benefit of hindsight, he should have set sail with Thomas and Abigail the minute Vane and Teach had rescued them. It would have been the logical move, the rational move.

He’d told Thomas his advice was needed to complete the negotiations, that he wanted to finish what he’d started. He’d lied. Or rather, he’d mostly lied because he hadn’t stayed to finish anything—he’d stayed because he knew his presence would make Hennessey angry; it had been as simple at that.

It had worked, to the point that he was now a hunted man with a price on his head, a price that might also include Thomas.

He rubbed his naked finger, the one that usually sported Thomas’s ring. A wise man would never have allowed a personal vendetta to overpower good sense. A wise man would have done everything in his power to protect his loved ones from the effects of that same vendetta.

He could still make it right, of course. He could sail to Harbor Island, march up to where Hennessey was quartered and say, much as before, _‘My life for his.’_

However, there was no guarantee Hennessey wouldn’t betray him again, that he would even accept the trade. And then there was Thomas…

_‘…you might as well fit me for the same noose because I wouldn’t survive your second death…’_

Those words hadn’t just been words; Thomas had truly meant them. Therefore, there was nothing for it but to accept that once again he’d let anger rule the day and move on from there, wherever therewas.

Becoming a pirate had been easy, killing had been easy. Everything after had been a complex journey he’d navigated sometimes with care, sometimes like a bull gone mad. If he were to make anything of this new life with Thomas, he’d have to move with patience and caution. He’d sound out each move, judging the balance between reward and effort, the same as he would any other treasure.

Realizing he’d just thought of Thomas as a prize to be taken, he pushed to his feet and looked down at the beach. The tide wasn’t nearly out; there was no point going down yet. He sat down and then lay back and fell asleep.

***

The harsh call of a gull woke him with a start. He glanced up. By the sun’s angle it was almost three, well into low tide. Sure enough, when he got down to the beach, he had more than enough room to maneuver. The sloop was on solid sand and it was quick work to get out his sea bag, the chest, and a small crate he’d use as a stool. He lit the lantern and picked up the chest and the crate, then made for the outthrust of rock.

It had been a surprise when he’d first found the cave. He’d been exploring the chain of islands while on a stopover at Rum Cay. He’d told Gates to give the men some tale if they asked after him, then set out. He’d found the cave on the first landing, mistaking the barrier for a spine of black rock and nothing more. It was only when he’d gotten right up close that he’d realized that the spine was actually a fold in the rock that hid a six-foot wide fissure. Once past the opening, the cave widened to a rough fifteen feet. He had no idea how deep it was—he’d only gone twenty or so feet before stopping, uneasy as the black was _too_ black.

The cave seemed much as when he’d last visited—a cold, dark place with rock walls that had been formed into deep, ragged shelves.

He measured his paces from the fissure’s opening, stopping at twelve. Raising the lantern high, he scanned the stratified rock face and chose a likely spot. He hadn’t been exact as to the height of the shelf and it was a good thing because here his memory was faulty—instead of finding a stone shelf at five feet high as he’d imagined, it was at least seven.

Grumbling, he set the lantern down, positioned the crate and then picked up the chest. He raised it with a grunt and deposited it on the shelf. It didn’t fit. The shelf was deep enough but the rock above curved at the wrong spot.

_“Shit!”_ he swore softly, shoving the chest back and then again. It took some work and a lot of swearing but he finally got the chest far enough back.

He hopped off the crate and went to the middle of the cave. While the chest wasn’t completely visible, if someone looked at it just right they’d see a corner.

Oh, well, he thought with a shrug; it would have to do. The corner  could easily be misconstrued as part of the rock; even if anyone found the cave in the first place, even if they thought to explore. He picked up the crate and lantern and returned to the light, feeling a great weight lift from his soul.

The tide was on its way back but he had time for his next step. He got his kit from his sea bag and knelt before it.

This was the part that could end up costing him. If anything went wrong it would be difficult returning to who he’d been. One look at him and the men would know what he’d been up to. It had to be done, though, and he stripped off his clothing, dug out the last bit of Castile soap and walked into the sea.

He bathed, standing in the indolent surf, scrubbing his hair and body, washing away the sweat and dirt. It felt good, being clean. His casual comment to Thomas aside, it _had_ been hard at first, learning to not care whether he bathed in weeks or months. His father had always said that being clean took as much time as being dirty, an observance James had never examined until he was much older.

After he had joined the Navy and taken under Hennessey’s wing, he’d been instructed that a healthy body and mind made for a healthy sailor. He had listened so intently, so perfectly to those lessons, sure that if he followed every word he’d be as great a man as Hennessey.

Odd to think that one slip-up, one minor character imperfection had changed the course of his life forever.

Of course, most would call what he shared with Thomas as anything but a minor character imperfection—Hennessey sure as hell hadn’t. Society, polite or otherwise, had choice words for what he was.

But—he thought with a mighty stretch, done with washing but not the lovely feeling of being naked in the water—fuck society anyway. He’d lived on his own terms, his own rules. Most couldn’t say the same.

In some strange way content, he left the sea and went back to the boat and got out his straight razor. He propped the mirror on the bow, soaped his beard and mustache and began.

It took but a moment; a stroke here, a stroke there, and he was clean of facial hair. He rubbed his jaw and chin. It felt odd, having no beard, as if he was now truly naked where before he was not. Hesitantly, he held the mirror at arm’s length so he could see all of his face.

With just a few swipes of the blade, he’d changed back to James McGraw. Not quite the McGraw from before, though. Older, with eyes and skin that had seen more years, his face seemed nonetheless more open, more soft. Who would have thought something as every day as a beard could effect such a change?

Rubbing his jaw one more time, he put everything away, making no attempt to cut his hair. He wasn’t stupid enough to try to shave his head on his own and his hair was too short to do much with it; he’d just leave it unbound and hope for the best.

The day before, he’d purchased clothes in the market. He’d bought a black linen coat, a red waistcoat, black breeches and white wool stockings, all of which would hopefully give the impression of a middle man, a man neither rich enough to kidnap nor poor enough to bully.

He dressed, leaving off his shoes and stockings, then bundled everything away. He weighed anchor and pushed the sloop into the calm water and was off again, this time heading south.

***

With the trade winds at his back and accompanied by a school of dolphins for a few miles, he managed good time to Port Royal. There was a bad moment rounding Point Morant where the rebellious wind, the setting sun and thoughts of Thomas sent him too close to the rocks. He recovered ably, tacking away to safety, cursing his absentmindedness.

The deep harbor was full of anchored merchant ships but further out, he spied a familiar sloop of war, the _Bathsheba._ So, Henry Jennings was here. The last James had news of him, he’d just taken a Spanish treasure ship at a profit of sixty thousand reales.

He wasn’t fond of Jennings. Working as Governor Hamilton’s pet privateer for so long meant the two might still have deep connections; he’d always wondered if Jennings was a spy. On the other hand, Jennings presence might be a good thing—his feud with Hornigold was still alive and well. Hornigold wasn’t a coward by any means but with Jennings in residence, he might leave Port Royal for last.

Sliding up to the eastern-most dock, James tied the sloop off, then pulled on his stockings and shoes. He hesitated, then decided caution over vanity and removed his earring and ring, pocketing them both. Lastly, he added a cocked hat to his costume, hoping it would add the final touch of respectable anonymity.

He lobbed his sea bag onto the dock, then climbed out.

He didn’t like leaving the sloop with no guard but there was no other option. If he found her missing in the morning, that would just add impetus to his need to find a ship. Sea bag over his shoulder, he set out towards the lights and noise.

Port Royal’s glory days were long gone, no thanks to the anti-piracy laws, the Great Earthquake and the hurricanes that chipped away at the town every year. Some of its magnificence was still was in sight—parrots flew everywhere, there were more taverns than shops and the streets were filled with merchants, whores and drunken pirates.

He passed one such person lolling on the stoop of a slop-seller. The man was holding a bottle of rum and singing softly to himself. When he glanced up, James was shocked to find himself looking at Davy Teague.

Teague had been among his first crew when he’d been made captain of the _Walrus._ The man had been a good cooper but a bad drunk and Gates had dismissed him after he was found in the storeroom on top of their first haul, half dead in a stupor after having dipped into the run without asking.

He doubted Teague recognized him but he turned his head and continued down the narrow street, his mood soured. Teague was his age, maybe a year younger; he looked as if he was on death’s door.

He was still frowning when he entered The Black Dogg, his first choice for a likely ship.

The tavern was built like every other tavern—a large room with nooks and crannies that acted as meeting places and a stairway at the back. He made his way to the bar, asked for a mug of rum and then found a place off to the side to reconnoiter.

Most of the men were island residents, although a few pirates lurked in the corners. There were no women; this wasn’t the place to make money and the whores knew it. There also wasn’t the type of merchant he was looking for—someone not too ethical but not a scoundrel that would recognize him for who he was and ransom him to the highest bidder.

He sipped his rum, disappointed. He knew he wouldn’t find a ship right off but The Black Dogg had always served him well; he’d acquired Joji and Beauclerc at this very table, back in ‘07.

He finished his drink, shouldered the bag and left.

His next stop was the Three Crowns, Stocks’s usual hunting grounds, but he backed out before he got through the door. Holding court in the center of the tavern were five uniformed, well-armed men. They weren’t Royal Navy but the next worst thing—Governor Hamilton’s men. They didn’t see him, so engrossed in whatever story one of them was telling.

He tried The Shipp, next. It was half empty as was The Windmill, one street over.

Frustrated and tired, deciding he’d give it one more go and then find a place for the night. He headed north through a growing fog to Lime Street to see if the pickings were better.

When he crossed the threshold of The Feathers, he almost sighed. The place was full of rich-coated merchants, talking so loud their words blended to a loud, annoying hum.

He got his drink, brandy this time, then once again found a spot in a dark corner.

Near the back stairs, a group of men sat huddled together. He recognized Peter Van Kanne, former mate on Jennings’s crew. Word was that Van Kanne had turned legitimate, but only just. James didn’t recognize the other men at the table; one was young with long black hair that reminded him of Vane and the rest were hidden by the shifting crowd.

At the table nearer his left sat Captain Self of the _Splendid._ To the right was Captain Duffy and his quartermaster, a man with a less than savory past who had once sailed under the name of Black Dan.

James knew little about Self, other than he worked out of Maryland exporting lumber and importing slaves. Duffy, on the other hand, had a name for being a cheat and a liar who would dump his cargo at just the sight of the Navy. If no one better came along, James would follow Self to his ship and make his offer.

He was sitting there, idly wondering if he was hungry enough to chance a meal when the men at Van Kanne’s table stood up and began to make their way towards the door. Rising above the small crowd was a very familiar figure and he had to keep from swearing aloud. What the _fuck_ was Billy doing here?

He weighed his options, deciding that staying rabbit-still was the only way to avoid detection when Self laughed out loud at something, drawing Billy’s eye.

Billy glanced at him, a fleeting pass that turned into one of confused recognition. He started to move, then recovered with a visible swallow. He left the tavern, striding stiffly.

So much for that. James waited five minutes, each second an eternity, then got up and followed.

The fog was rolling with intent now, making it difficult to see anything but the shop lanterns. He wasn’t worried, though; he didn’t need to see—he just needed Billy to see _him._

He walked, heading away from the harbor and its crowds, back towards the east end where they wouldn’t be noticed. When he got to a dark street that ended at the dark jetty, he dropped the bag, turned and waited.

For a man his size, Billy was surprisingly light on his feet. James saw him coming down the street, but heard no footsteps until he was five feet away. He expected complaints and anger at his defection, but all Billy said was, “Jesus. I didn’t half recognize you. You know, with the…” Billy gestured to his own face. “It changes you, it really does.”

“What the hell is going on, Billy?”

Billy shrugged. “Miss Guthrie said you’d be here eventually.”

Damn Eleanor, anyway. “Did she tell you where I was going?”

“No. I’m assuming it has something to do with Lord Hamilton and Miss Ashe as well as the _Swift Jane._ She was seen leaving the harbor yesterday morning.”

“Is it the men? Why are you here?”

Billy shook his head, then looked down at his feet and then over James’s shoulder. “Miss Guthrie gave me the letter. I was surprised until I heard word about Captain Hornigold.”

“Does everyone know?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not running,” he said quickly, only partway lying.

“I know,” Billy answered. “I know why you’re leaving. I suppose I should have expected it.”

“And this is?”

Billy shook his head again, then shifted from foot to foot. “When she told me you’d left and why, I thought, good, we can finally be done with the whole bloody mess.”

“And what mess would that be?”

“You know—the lying, the secrets. I figured we’d get a captain we could trust. One that wouldn’t use us to further his own agenda and maybe that captain would be me.”

“And?”

“And then I started thinking, started picturing how it was going to be. We all know about the pardons but those won’t happen anytime soon—Rogers is going to have to return to London before anything can happen, won’t he. In the meantime, we do what? Wait to see if our fate is yours? Turn legitimate only to be hanged in the end? I don’t want that, not after everything I’ve been through with you and with Hume. I figure I’d start anew, make something of myself and if the pardons come, I’ll have depositions proving my worth.”

The plan was well-thought out but all he said was, “And?”

“And then I thought, even if I didn’t end up in a noose, maybe I wouldn’t like being a regular captain so much. Always working for someone else with shit pay and no respect.”

“Billy—”

“And so I thought that if you could do it, go back to who you were with no one the wiser, maybe—” Billy hesitated and looked down at his feet. “My father probably thinks I’m dead by now. Even if he hates me for the rest of his life, I’d like him to know I’m not.”

James drew a deep breath. “Billy, in order for this to work, I need to vanish. I won’t be going back to London.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to find work somewhere in the colonies.”

“I know.”

“Billy—”

“I’m not leaving the only life I know for you or me; I’m doing it for her.”

So Thomas was right. “Miss Ashe? What about her?”

“Who’s going to protect her if they come for you?”

“Thomas will.”

Billy took a step forward. “That’s much the same, isn’t it? If they come for you, who’s going to protect _him_?”

“Thomas doesn’t need protection. He can handle himself.”

“Back in Nassau, I was talking to a merchant just come from Boston. He says there’s going to be a war between England and France and maybe even the colonists. He says things won’t stay the way they are and we all need to prepare. If that happens, Miss Ashe and Lord Hamilton will be caught in the middle, won’t they?”

He tightened his lips. Billy’s merchant was right; other than the fact that they made his job more profitable, he’d read with little interest of the series of wars between England, France and the various Indian tribes. He didn’t, however, doubt that England would finance the building of more towns and cities—it’s what the Crown did. That would, however, drive more conflict with Spain and France and that could easily lead to another war.

Billy nodded. “The way I see it, if there’s two of us that knows what’s what, we have twice the opportunity to get them away if anything happens.”

He glared at nothing, stroking his jaw, startled to find he hand no beard to stroke. “You’re basing too much on ‘ifs’, Billy. _If_ Hornigold finds me, _if_ England pushes further than France will permit—most likely none of that will happen. There’s such a thing as being too cautious, you know.”

“And who’s the one that taught me the very opposite?” Billy was angry now. “That you have to plan and plan and then plan again, making sure everything is accounted for?”

“Maybe I was wrong.”

“Maybe you were and maybe I’m worrying too much, but…” He looked everywhere but James. “I suppose what it comes down to is that I couldn’t bear it. If she got hurt and I wasn’t there, I couldn’t bear it.”

Billy’s simple words cut like a knife. He knew that pain and the ensuing regret; the last ten years had been a living, breathing result of that regret. “What about the men?”

Billy shrugged. “Half of them are going to accept the pardons, the other half don’t know what they’re going to do. Besides, they’ve taken to Silver; if he’s to be their captain, then good for him and them.” Billy looked James straight in the eye. “You have to know, I informed Miss Guthrie of my plan and asked her to give the letter to Mr. Silver when the time is right.”

_Fuck._ “I hope you didn’t tell him about any of this.”

Billy cocked his head. “I’m not a fool. He knows nothing, only that you were tipped off about Hornigold.”

He hesitated, then asked, “The men? What do they think?”

“That you got your gold and are leaving for St. Mary’s, out of Hornigold’s reach.”

“No mention of Lord Hamilton?”

“None that I heard.”

He glanced out at the jetty. A ship was sliding into the harbor, coming to rest near the others. “And you think you can leave the life as easy as that?” he murmured, as if to himself.

“I wasn’t born a pirate and I’m smarter than people take me for; I can learn a new trade. My biggest obstacle, as I see it, is my height. You can blend in. I can’t.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “You’ve thought it all out but did you think about Miss Ashe?”

“What about her?”

“How well do you know her? Does _she_ want you around?”

“I’m not expecting her to marry me,” Billy answered quietly. “I expect she’ll marry someone rich and powerful. But I can be there if she needs me.”

He sighed. Would Billy care if he told him that such a life was no life at all? Probably not. “What were you going to do next?”

Billy finally looked unsure. “My thought was to find you, so I could find out where Miss Ashe is, then find employment. Once I establish myself, I’ll sail to England to call on my family.”

“And how will you get to Charles Town?”

“That captain I was talking to back in The Feathers, Van Kanne? He’s carrying sugar. He’d sailing to Carolina and then Boston. He’s leaving at first light.”

“Did you find a ship for me?” he asked, mostly in jest but Billy answered quickly, “Captain Silcox of the _Fair Dawn_ is taking on passengers but Van Kanne is, too.”

“And what would happen if I just said no, I won’t help you?”

“I couldn’t force you to tell me where Miss Ashe and Lord Hamilton are. You’d go to the grave with that knowledge if it suited you,” Billy said evenly. “But I could follow you. Eventually, I’d find out. This way is simpler.”

“Very well.”

“Yes?” Billy said slowly, as if expecting another answer. “I can go with you?”

“We won’t be traveling together, but yes, you can. We’ll need to coordinate our arrival.”

“I’m staying at The Sign of the George. It’s quiet; no one will know us.”

He didn’t want another drink, he didn’t want to scheme; he wanted a bed and sleep. But he picked up his sea bag and nodded. “Lead on.”

***

He was up before dawn. He crept down the inn’s stairs, nodding to the woman kneeling in front of the fireplace. She didn’t nod back.

The grey sky was clear; it was a good omen and he made for the docks, taking his time. He wasn’t the only one up; merchants were setting up their shops, some sweeping off their stoops, some filling their carts with goods. He’d purchased breakfast the night before and he sat down on the edge of a barren fountain and ate it. If he had been thinking, he would have gotten something to drink, as well. The meat pie was good, but thick and doughy and hard to swallow.

When he was done he brushed his hands and stood up.

Billy’s plan was simple—he would go to Van Kanne’s ship, the _Pheasant,_ that night to accept the offer of work for passage. James would arrive in the morning so as not to arouse suspicion.

Privately, he thought Billy was being a bit too wary; captains such as Van Kanne were used to bartering labor for a passage; he’d think nothing of Billy’s request.

Still, when he got to the jetty where Van Kanne’s men were waiting near a longboat and inquired after passage, he was careful to keep his expression and demeanor as harmless as possible. Without hesitation, the quartermaster gave him two prices: eight pounds to sleep in the fore cabin, three pounds to sleep in the hold with the men.

He’d anticipated these choices as well as the outrageous prices and answered tentatively, as if he unused to the sea, saying he’d take the privacy of the cabin.

***

Van Kanne’s quartermaster had taken on two other passengers, a man and a woman. They were sick the entire passage and spoke only to each other, disregarding James altogether.

Happy to be ignored, he kept to the cabin as much as possible, only taking occasional turns on the deck. After one such outing for fresh air, he spied Billy climbing the shrouds. Other than that, their paths didn’t cross.

To pass the time between storms, he slept and read.

In a hurry that last day, he’d grabbed only items he might need and those that meant most to him—clothes, weapons, maps, a few odds and ends such as the German silver compass that Miranda had given him—and as many books as he could carry: Locke, Addison, Shakespeare and Ovid.

Not in the mood for anything heavy, he chose _Cato,_ opening the book to a page made familiar by use _._ It was a relatively new possession, bought on a whim some four years prior from a seller in the market. He’d read Addison’s letters and publications, of course, and was taken by his rhetoric. He hadn’t, however, expected to be affected so deeply by his poetry, especially when he had come across:

_The stars shall fade away, the sun himself_  
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,  
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,  
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,  
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

They had been a balm, those words, and he’d read them again and again. Both antidote and reminder that Thomas would remain forever mortal within his own memory, he’d used them to counter the loneliness and grief.

But now, he thought with a start, laying his hand over the page, Addison’s words took on a new meaning, a different hope. Try as the world had, Thomas had survived his own war, his own wrecks, as had he. It was up to them to now make something of the two men that they had become.

Heart lightened, he blocked out the sounds of misery coming from the nearby hammocks and turned to the preface and began to read.

***

They sailed into the Charles Town harbor without incident. James wanted to congratulate Van Kanne on his fine sailing as he’d managed to miss the worst of a vicious storm but thought the better of it.

Feeling as if he were the hare preparing to jump into the frying pan, he strode down the plank with the other passengers, using them for cover. Once on the dock, he made for the safety of a tower of cotton bales and looked around.

It had been almost a month since his last visit to Charles Town and the results of his handiwork were everywhere. A quarter of the dock at the north end was gone and maybe half the buildings destroyed. Laborers were working, repairing the brick and wood. The smithy to his right had recently been rebuilt as had the inn just beyond. In the bay, a trio of longboats was huddled together; every so often a diver would come up for air and he realized they were retrieving valuables from a sunken ship.

He should feel guilty about the devastation he’d wrought but didn’t—he felt a mean sense of satisfaction and he leaned against the bales, swallowing a glad sneer.

He was still there, still watching when Billy strode off the ship. He met James’s glance, then nodded to Queen Street.

This time it was James that followed, up the street to a small alley between two taverns.

“How was it?” he asked, looking around to make sure they were alone.

“I thought for sure the carpenter’s mate recognized me but he never said anything,” Billy answered. “He was on Davis’s crew.”

James nodded. With the pardons on the horizon, a pirate’s worse fear was soon going to not only be the Crown but his ex-mates who might attempt to curry English favor by denouncing the worst of them. “What would you have done if he had?” There was a boy coming up the alley.

“I would have killed him and dumped his body over the gunwale.”

He grinned. “That’s why he said nothing.” The boy was coming right towards them. James’s hand went to the knife hidden in his coat.

“Captain?”

“It’s ‘McGraw,’ if you please,” he reminded in a rough whisper.

“Sorry.” Billy held up his hand, palm out; the boy stopped in his tracks.

“What’s going on?”

“I made a friend. I want to talk to you about him.”

The boy, maybe eighteen or nineteen was about James’s height with spotty skin and brown hair pulled back in a queue. He wasn’t wearing or carrying anything that announced his circumstances, but still, James knew. “He’s a deserter from the Navy, isn’t he.”

Billy’s mouth dropped open. He quickly closed it again saying, “How did you know?” Before James could answer, Billy shook his head. “Never mind that now. He needs to get away and he can’t go back to London.”

“We’re not taking on any deserters; we’ll be under enough suspicion as it is.”

“We have to,” Billy insisted, firming his jaw. “He made the mistake of losing at cards back in London. He didn’t have any money so they’ve been taking it out in trade. They were at him every night since they left Portsmouth.”

He didn’t have to ask who ‘they’ and ‘it’ was. He stepped closer, saying quietly, “Billy, what they did to me doesn’t compare to what they’ll do to him when they catch him. He’ll put us all in danger.”

“The same as you, Captain.”

Furious, he lowered his head.

“Look,” Billy said, with an uneasy shrug. “I understand. It’s just, when I came over, I didn’t have anyone to look after me but I was tall and strong and was able take care of myself. Massey didn’t have that. But,” he nodded firmly, “if it’s as you say, I’ll find him a place up north and then return.”

He hesitated. He’d been in that same situation when sailing with his father. The men that respected his father had approached carefully, the ones that hadn’t, grabbed him when they’d had the chance. He’d learned to use his fists on the latter and a steady but uncertain, ‘no’ on the former. “Very well.”

Billy waved the boy over, muttering, “His name is Arthur Massey. His parents died in a fire in ‘06; he was living with his uncle before the press gangs got him.”

Massey was younger than he’d appeared from the distance and he bobbed his head to James. “Thank you, sir,” he said, giving Billy a quick glance. “I won’t be no trouble.”

“See that you don’t and don’t call me ‘sir.’”

Massey nodded again. “I’ll earn my keep; I know a fair bit about smithing and I can cook. Sort of.”

“I doubt we’ll have need for either, but an extra pair of hands will be useful where we’re going.”

“And where is that?” Billy asked.

He hesitated once more. He trusted Billy with the location of Thomas’s island but not the boy.

As if hearing his silent doubts, Billy said, “One of the mates on Van Kanne’s crew told me about the Mermaid over on State Street. It’s got a reputation for being not too respectable. I’ll go with Arthur and get a room while you take care of your business.”

At the mention of food, he realized he was hungry. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“We can wait.”

“I’ll send word if I can, otherwise I’ll come find you. If you don’t hear from me within two days, ask around for a pastor by the name of Reynolds. Tell him you’re a friend of Thomas’s; he should be able to help you.”

Massey furrowed his brow but Billy just nodded. “And you?”

“I’m off to find a boat.”

***

Charles Town wasn’t London by any means but it was larger than it looked and it took him an hour to find a boatman who would rent him a flat-bottomed pirogue for the trip to Wadmalaw. The man, about his age with an unpowdered wig and a hawkish nose, seemed familiar and James realized he’d been at the trial a month ago. He’d been one of the first men to throw rotten vegetables at Miranda’s corpse.

With fulsome charm and the need to see if his disguise worked, James asked after the man’s business and threw him a few flatteries. Within moments, the man was all smiles. He informed James that the town had seen recent native raiding parties and that he’d need to travel with care. And then drew James a crude map on a scrap of broadsheet that would be, he said, he best possible route that would bypass the, _‘God-forsaken savages.’_

Disgusted but hiding it, James delivered a hidden thrust by casually mentioning his hunger. The man insisted James have his breakfast of cornbread and salted pork, freshly made and delivered by his wife. James paid with a coin he wished were as counterfeit as his smile and took the food. He was shown to the boat and in a moment, he was rowing out of the harbor. He kept up the charade until he was well away and then let his smile drop.

For the past three days, he’d done nothing but plan and scheme. From the routes he’d take to the clothing he’d buy. The one thing he hadn’t thought about was that he might have a problem getting along with the colonists. If the boatman was any example, it was going to be rough going.

He was navigating to the Ashley when he looked down on the paper the man had given him. On one side was the map, on the other was a printed warrant and he read, _‘…this Foul and Treacherous act perpetrated upon our fair Towne by none other than the Pyrate Captain Fli—’_

Grinning, he tucked the paper in his shirt and began to row in earnest.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_At Sea_

 

Unfortunately, the _Swift Jane_ was not swift, though that most probably had to do with the weather and not the capabilities of the crew and captain. Storms filled each day, forcing Vane to either sail around or sail through. Thomas and Abigail were left alone for the most part; the few times Vane did inquire after them, he was curt, giving their possible location and new time of arrival.

Abigail spent the entire trip in the cabin with a bad stomach. Thomas understood and stayed with her, only leaving to take quick strolls about the decks during the calm periods to alleviate the awful sense that the cabin was too small. He took care not to engage the men in any fashion but they ignored him, paying him no attention even when he passed an arm’s length away.

He was on such a walk, wondering if they were ever going to get there, when the man on the masthead piped a tune and then shouted, “Land off larboardside!”

He hurried to the side as the deck became a hive of activity. Vane joined him, spyglass already to his eye.

“Is it Charles Town?” Thomas asked.

“No,” Vane said, “Florida.” He glanced at Thomas with a sideways grin. “Even I’m not that good.”

“When do you think we’ll be within sight of Carolina?”

“By noon.” Vane closed the glass with a snap.

“What is your plan once we arrive?”

“To slide up near Key Waw Island at high tide and get as close as we can. I want to avoid Charles Town at all costs.”

“Although I’ve never taken this route, I believe our destination can be reached via a river that runs to the ocean.”

“And what is your destination, exactly?”

He hesitated. He’d wanted to keep the island’s location secret but he couldn’t ask Vane and his men to risk their lives more than they already have.

“If you’re worried about my intentions,” Vane said, “you can rest assured that I have none. I spent a good part of my youth in these parts; I won’t be staying longer than it takes to get rid of you.”

He raised his eyebrow, but was satisfied, nonetheless. “Our destination is Wadmalaw Island. It’s south and west of Charles Town.”

Vane nodded. “I know it. One of the English lords had a home on the north end. Three years ago I came across a ship full of furniture and goods bound for the Wadmalaw.”

He didn’t answer. He’d forgotten that, forgotten how furious Peter had been at the loss. He’d railed against the blackguard pirates for a good thirty minutes, then told Rhett to write up a broadsheet listing the items and the reward for each.

Vane gave him a sharp glance and smiled, as if hearing Thomas’s silent thoughts but only said, “My men will take you as far as the southern landing, if it still exists.”

“That would be more than fine. Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” Vane replied. “My crew and I are being paid well for the trouble.”

Vane had turned to go when Thomas stopped him, unable _not_ to ask, “How much?”

Vane grinned again. “Two thousand pounds for the two of you.”

He didn’t know what to say. Two thousand pounds would have kept both his London household and the country house in good order for an entire year, including food, repairs and wages; there would have even been some to spare.

Vane nodded. “I could have asked for four thousand for you alone and he would have paid it. My loss.”

This time, when Vane walked away, he made no move to stop him.

***

The rest of the journey was without incident. Thomas roused Abigail when the ship weighed anchor off the coast of Carolina in the late afternoon. He helped her with her things and they went out on deck.

“Is this better?” he asked as soon as they were in the sun.

Abigail nodded and shaded her eyes. “It is. I should have come out earlier.”

“It might not have helped. I overheard one of the men say this was a singularly difficult voyage.”

She smiled wanly. “Did he use the word, ‘singular’?”

He grinned. “He did not. His choice of adjectives were much more colorful.” The crew was busy as ants, some up on the spars doing something with the sails, others on the deck lowering a boat over the side. Vane was saying something to one of the men, pointing his cheroot as he talked. When he saw Thomas and Abigail, he clapped the man on the shoulder and threw the cheroot over the side of the boat.

“I’m sending my most reputable-looking men,” Vane said, walking over to them. “I wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea about you.”

“Thank you.” The boxes and barrels that held Miranda’s things sat by the bulwark. One of the men tossed a package on top of the barrels; it was about ten feet long and wrapped in brown paper. “What is that? That’s not ours.”

“It’s for Flint; a gift from Eleanor.” Vane gave him a look out of the corner of his eye. “I thought you knew what it was.”

“I do not.”

Vane said nothing for a moment, then murmured, “It’s not pleasant is it?”

“What is?” Thomas asked.

“Being in the middle of those two.”

His back stiffened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He tugged on Abigail’s arm. “Come, my dear, I think they’re ready for us.”

By now, he was used to the clumsy exercise of boarding and unboarding and he was down in the longboat before he knew it. He helped Abigail and then guided her to a seat in the front. Their cargo was transferred in a moment and then the men, still silently ignoring them, began to row.

He looked up at the _Swift Jane._ Vane, as expected, was watching them go, only this time he was joined by his men. What had Vane threatened them with, he wondered. Banishment, death, a lesser share of whatever profits was to come? Whatever it had been, it had been effective and he couldn’t help his sigh of relief as the distance between the _Jane_ and the boat grew wider. He was so very glad to be off that ship.

***

Twenty minutes he was even more glad that the option of a guide and guards hadn’t been given because he might have said there was no need. Sailing by Seabrook Island he spied a large black form in the water that quickly disappeared without a splash.

Abigail gasped and he patted her hand. “It was just an alligator. You’ve heard of them, yes?”

“My father told me of them. He said I shouldn’t walk near the streams and rivers for fear of stumbling upon them while they sleep.”

“For the most part, they are harmless. I’ve only ever seen one.” He was much more afraid of water snakes, but wasn’t going to tell her that. “The New World isn’t like London with all the creatures known and catalogued. It’s why I wanted you to have a time to reflect on your future, whether you’ll stay here or return home.”

“What other dangers are there?”

“Wolves, bears, panthers, though I’ve only heard stories and have never seen any. There are also agues and fevers.”

“When I was little, my father told me of a time when his father had to leave London to avoid the plague.”

He nodded. “My family, as well. They retreated to our home in Ashbourne and stayed the better part of two years. Which means that illness is universal and not restricted to the New World.”

“And the natives?”

“Like any other human creature, there are the good and the bad.”

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“What is that?”

He looked, following her gaze. About a half mile from the shore was a cluster of homes. Or rather, there had been—now there was just a charred mass. He thought the mounds of black in the field were the corpses of burned cattle but refrained from saying anything in case they weren’t. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Fires aren’t uncommon here.”

“I hope whomever lived there was not hurt.”

He nodded, hoping the same.

The rest of the journey was taken in silence.

***

Arriving at the southern landing was like coming home and Thomas got out of the boat eagerly and helped Vane’s men drag her to shore.

When the boat was beached, he gave Abigail his arm and they climbed onto the sandy soil and once again watched as their goods were ported to the relative safety of the bushes that lined the river.

“We’ll leave everything here for now,” he said to Abigail as the men silently pushed the boat back into the river. “I’ll send Cameron for it later.”

“Are they going just like that?” Abigail whispered.

“They don’t want to be caught here anymore than we want them to be caught here.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

She was holding her portmanteau and he didn’t have the heart to make her leave it behind. He took it from her; she was right—it weighed much more than it had.

“Yes,” he said, turning her to the road and giving her his arm. He knew this part of the island well. Vane’s men had done them a service by bringing them further north than he’d requested. It would mean a walk of a mile, but considering what they’d been through, a mile was nothing. “From now on, any association with pirates will be suspect.”

“But after the pardons?”

“It will take time.” Odd to think it had been over a month since he’d walked this road.

When he’d left all those weeks ago, he’d felt no connection to this land, to this world. Even three days ago, standing in the surf on that Nassau beach he’d felt regret that he had to leave such a serene place. But now, seeing the green fields and the blue river with new eyes, he felt as if he were gazing at long-lost friends. How had he not missed all this? What would James make of the island? Would he appreciate its beauty or would he simply look on it as a stepping-stone to the next move.

It was startling, the thought, and he realized he didn’t want to relocate north to Massachusetts or New Hampshire. He wanted to stay here in this place that had given him sanctuary and peace.

“Thomas?” Abigail asked. “What is it?”

He smiled, searching for the thread of their conversation and finding it. “It is nothing, and to answer your question more thoroughly, a pardon from the Crown is one thing; a pardon from the people is something else entirely. They won’t forget quickly, I’m afraid.”

“I hadn’t thought about that, either.”

“The implementation of a law moves slowly, especially when the lawmakers are on the other side of the world. Try not to worry about Mr. Manderly. He will be all right.”

“And James?”

“He will be fine,” he answered more optimistically than he felt. So much could go wrong. Perhaps it would have been better for James to hide away for a few years on the continent. Spain and France were chancy but Florence or Prussia would be good choices. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “And if he isn’t,” he added absently, “I’m sure we can come up with a plan to keep him safe.”

Whatever she might have answered was cut off by a shout and then another.

Instinctively, he drew Abigail to the side of the road to take cover in the brush, looking all around. He could see nothing. He was cursing his forgetfulness and wondering how quickly he could retrieve the flintlock that was safely stored in the flour sack along with his new clothes when he spied movement ahead.

He smiled and straightened up, leading Abigail back out to the road. It was just Cameron and one of the farm boys, running down towards them. His smiled died. Cameron and the boy were coming at a fair speed, both holding muskets. When they got closed, they slid to a stop, raising a small cloud of dust.

“What is it?” Thomas called out, any sense of happy homecoming gone. “Is it the pirates?” Always a tidy man, Cameron’s clothes were unkempt and dirty, his jaw bristly with a rough beard.

“Worse,” Cameron said over his panting breaths. “The land is under attack by the Indians.”

Thomas frowned, quickly glancing around at the peaceful countryside. “What Indians?” he asked, adding, “ _Our_ Indians?”

“No,” Cameron said with a shake of his head. He gulped, catching his breath. “They’re the only reason we’re still alive.”

“Tell me, but let’s hurry,” Thomas said, taking Abigail’s arm once again.

Cameron gestured to the portmanteau and the boy took it and slung it over his shoulder.

They set off at a brisk pace. “Now, what is going on?” Thomas asked.

“From what I understand, which isn’t much, the Yamasee have banded together and are going up and down the countryside murdering whoever they come across. They’ve killed at least a hundred white men so far.”

“Oh, my God,” Thomas breathed.

“They killed Thomas Nairne up at Pocotaligo when he went to make peace; John Wright, too. Samuel Warnes and his family were burned out of their home. Now it seems the Ochese and a half dozen other tribes are involved. Most of the settlers in these parts are either moving to Charles Town or thinking about it.”

Thomas didn’t know who Nairne or Wright were but he’d heard of Warnes. Peter had told him of the family, saying they lived nearby and that he admired Warnes’s attitude in regards to the natives. Perhaps the bodies at the farm on Seabrook hadn’t been the corpses of cattle after all, and on that thought, he stopped dead. “Mr. Cameron, I’m expecting a guest, a man by the name of James McGraw. Has he arrived?”

Cameron shook his head. “Not that any of us has seen. Which way was he coming?”

“I don’t know. I would have thought by the river but maybe by road via the ferry?”

“When was he due?”

“He should have been here days ago.” Abigail squeezed his arm and he patted her hand calmly, feeling anything but calm.

“Then he’s either been waylaid by the raiding parties or an animal got him; Mrs. Cameron and I haven’t seen any new faces around these parts, though she’s been in town this last week.”

He swallowed and then nodded and they began walking again. “Well, there’s nothing for it now. We’ll think of what to do when we get to the house.” Abigail was watching him but he ignored her—this was no time to give in to panic or unnecessary worry. Many things could have interrupted James’s journey—Indians, a vicious animal or capture by Hornigold were the least likely. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you have left when you first heard the news?”

“I wanted to but after we got your letter, Mrs. Cameron insisted I stay in case we missed your ship.”

“And the provisional governor—what is he doing about the raids?”

“He’s forming militias as fast as can be, though it’s worse down south and up north. I heard he’s sending out delegations to meet with the other tribes that got no stake in the conflict. If we can get them on our side, this will be over before you know it.”

“And what about the Indians on the island? You said they warned you?”

Cameron shook his head. “I’ve never seen the like. There I was, milking the cow when who should show up to at the door but that old one, the woman. She’d brought her grandson to help her along the way. They were looking for you.”

“When was this?”

“A week ago Saturday. She don’t speak English but Mrs. Cameron speaks a smattering of French and we heard that way, that the northern tribes were conferring and scheming. She wanted to warn you.”

He shook his head. “And what happened to her?” They were within sight of the house. Nothing seemed out of place, other than the cattle were not in the pasture.

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her or the boy since they done left. For all I know, her clan joined the raids or they might still be in their village. The oddest thing is, Myles Philips over on James Island was driven out, as were the Morrises near the Stono Ferry, but we haven’t been touched. Even the livestock is well and good, though we lost two chickens to a fox. It makes me think the old woman put some kind of protection spell on the island.”

It was almost too much to take in. There had been unrest in the area, yes, but not full out war. “Did she give any reason why this was happening now?”

“She said something about slaves but we couldn’t get the whole thing.”

“Slaves,” he muttered, remembering the conversation with Henry Lewis and his predictions of war. How long ago that seemed. “And now?”

“And now that you’re here, we can leave and join Mrs. Cameron in Charles Town.”

“No, we can’t. I need to—”

Cameron stopped dead in his tracks and held up his hand. “Hush! Someone’s walking up to the house,” he whispered harshly. “Is that your friend?”

They’d come to the section where the road split in two; to the right lay the path to the river, to the left lay the path to the house. They were still some distance away and Thomas could see nothing but the white fence and the greenery that screened the house from the road. He let go of Abigail’s hand and circled behind Cameron to get a better look.

A man, indeed, was walking up to the house, only he wasn’t quite walking. He was creeping across the yard, bent low. He was wearing the clothing of a laborer and carrying a flintlock in one hand and a long knife in the other.

A soft snick drew Thomas’s attention and he reached out just in time. _“Stop!”_ he whispered, shoving Cameron’s musket up towards the sky. “That’s him!” Cameron gave him a sour look and Thomas added, “You three stay here. I don’t want to startle him.”

Without waiting for their assent, he set out in a quick step, not following the road but making a beeline through the brush and trees. When he got to the dirt drive that ran in front of the house, he stopped.

James was on the steps now, weapons still at the ready. He wasn’t wearing a coat, waistcoat or stockings. His shirt was filthy and ripped at the shoulder; he had a wound on his arm and his hair was loose. But he was alive, not taken by Indians or Hornigold and Thomas had to clear his throat, searching for calm before calling out softly, “Don’t shoot me, James.”

James stilled, then turned slowly.

James was as bedraggled from the front as he was the back. He had a smear of dirt on one cheek and another on his neck. But, he’d shaved his beard and mustache and as Thomas came to stand at the foot of the steps, he could only stare up in wonder.

It was startling, the change. It made James seem so much younger, more open and exposed, so much of the lieutenant from all those years ago.

“There you are,” James said almost angrily, examining Thomas, head to foot. “What the hell took you so long? Was it Vane? Did he bother you in any way?” He came back down the steps. “Where’s Abigail?”

Thomas cleared his throat again. So much for calm—all he wanted was to drag James close and hold him tight. “I should be asking you the same—what happened to you?”

James took another step down. “Fucking colonists, that’s what. They thought I was someone I wasn’t. I took care of them.”

He cocked his head. A lightness was filling his soul, the same as it had back on Hennessey’s ship when he’d been brought from the dark to the light, meeting James’s gaze across the ship’s deck… “Did you murder them, because if you did, that would be a bad start to your new life.”

James gave him that look, the one he loved so well, the one that said, _‘Thomas, don’t be an idiot.’_ “They’re alive, if a little worse for wear. They caught me at the ferry not far from here. They held me for nearly two days, thinking I was a pirate until I convinced them I wasn’t by killing a bear that had come looking for food.” James grinned. “They asked me to join their militia on the spot.”

He started to ask for details and then remembered. “As much as I want to hear everything, we have an audience of three.” He turned and gestured to the others though he couldn’t see them. “I know Abigail will want to say hello. She was very worried.”

James’s eyes narrowed, hearing Thomas’s own silent omission and admission. He sheathed his knife, saying quietly, “When we have time and privacy, I’ll answer that worry with the proper apology.”

Thomas climbed the steps; James followed. “I expect you will. Come, let me show you the house.”

He led the way only to pause at the last step. He stared at the massive double doors, suddenly feeling every moment of his journeys, the recent and the past, the physical and the spiritual. “I feel like Orpheus,” he murmured.

James was on the step right behind and he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, “We both have been in hell, Thomas, but we’re out now. I won’t vanish if you walk through that door.”

Without turning, he bent his head, swallowing hard; to be known so well was surely a blessing and, not looking back, he took the last step up.

 


	6. A Strange Pair

Book VI  
A Strange Pair  
1715

_........................................_

_Wadmalaw Island_  


He was late.

He’d promised he’d return by dinnertime on Monday and it was now half past three on Tuesday. That’s what he got for letting distraction win the day and missing the packet boat that was to take him to the _Martin_. He had a good excuse, though Thomas probably wouldn’t agree.

He ran up the steps and hurried into the house, nodding to Mrs. Cameron as he made his way to the stairs. He paused at the foot, hand on the balustrade. He could hear shouts and the dull sounds of wood on wood. He threw his sea bag on the steps and changed direction, heading towards the large salon with an eager smile.

His smile died as he entered the room finding only the children—as Thomas called them. They’d pushed the furniture and floor coverings to the side and were jabbing at each other with the wooden swords James had insisted on after what he still thought of as, _The Thomas Incident._

He raised an eyebrow, surprised when he saw what Abigail was wearing. So, Mrs. Cameron had been true to her word, after all.

During his last visit, he’d been in the salon watching Thomas teach Abigail the finer points of the parry when Mrs. Cameron came in to announce dinner. She’d taken one look at Abigail, then stomped into the room, hands on her hips. It was all well and good, she’d said, for a young girl to learn to defend herself but to wear a man’s clothes? It was only then that James realized that Abigail was wearing a pair of men’s breeches; he’d been so long used to the haphazard style of Nassau’s women that he hadn’t even noticed.

He’d asked what was more important, Abigail’s life or society’s approval. Mrs. Cameron flushed and left the room. For the rest of the day and on into the next she went about her duties silently, making sure he was aware of the depth of her anger.

Thomas had insisted he apologize, which he’d done to no avail. Thomas had tried next, using all his persuasion only to have the same result. In desperation, Thomas asked Cameron to intervene. Saying they should have left well enough alone and that his wife would have come around on her own, Cameron grudgingly obliged.

Whatever Cameron said, worked. Mrs. Cameron gradually got over her pique and on the eve of James’s departure for Norfolk, she came into the drawing room and announced that she was going into town to inquire after a decent pair of trousers for Miss Ashe. Mrs. Benedict, she’d said, had growing boys and perhaps they had a hand-me-down pair they no longer needed.

She left them, adding sharply that it would be trousers and not breeches as trousers were one thing but breeches were quite another.

James hadn’t seen the difference and he’d told Thomas that very thing, later on in bed. They’d shared a smile about it, mostly at James’s expense because he was shocked to find that he was afraid of Mrs. Cameron. She stood a little over five feet and rarely spoke above a well-modulated murmur, but he was afraid of her.

Thomas said it was because she was righteous in her beliefs and the righteous were ever intimidating. James knew it was because he was still waiting for the Camerons to march into town and announce to the world what was going on in the house.

But, disapproval or no, Mrs. Cameron had come around and here was the evidence: Abigail was wearing a boy’s shirt, a pair of worn trousers and an equally worn pair of men’s boots.

The clothes gave her freedom; either that or she’d been practicing daily because she’d forced Massey to retreat to the chairs with small, dogged moves. Massey had no room to maneuver, a situation made worse as his return thrusts were weak and careful.

James waited until there was a lull and then shouted, “Massey!” They both jumped and looked over at him. He took off his coat and walked into the room. “Forget she’s a girl! She’s taking advantage of your chivalry!”

Abigail gave him a look but had no time for more as Massey straightened up and went at her, this time with intent.

He watched them another space of time and then stopped them when Abigail stumbled with exhaustion. “You’re done!” he called out. They stilled and bent over, each panting for air.

“Very good,” he said. He dropped his coat on a chair and picked up the towels waiting on the side table. “You both need to pay more attention to the line of your back. Remember, your arms aren’t the center of your thrusting power, they’re the agent by which you deliver the blow.” He held out the towels. They each took one; Abigail wiped her face while Massey buried his face in his with a muttered curse.

“Arthur?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Massey looked up. His face was as red as a radish. “It’s just that I know all this, right?”

“You know what the Royal Navy taught you which is why they have so many one-legged cooks.”

Abigail winced and Massey made a face.

“Look,” James sighed. “You can keep up with these lessons or not; it’s your choice. Abigail, Thomas and I can practice by ourselves. I just want you to have the necessary skills to defend yourself should you need it.”

Whether or not Massey heard the meaning behind his words, that James wanted him to be able to ward off any man who came after him, he didn’t say. He just glanced quickly at Abigail, then jerked his head in assent.

“And speaking of skills,” James added as they all turned to the door, “on Thursday, we’re going to try out your other assets as a fight is never about etiquette and keeping to one weapon.” Thomas had wanted the children to receive a firm grounding on the proper use of a sword before adding what he’d called ‘tricks’ to the lessons, but they were getting bored. James couldn’t blame them.

“What are our other assets?” Abigail asked.

“Your fists, your feet—your entire body can be a weapon if you use it correctly.” They both smiled eagerly and he thought, _‘Ah-ha.’_ “We’ll keep it simple; Thomas won’t be happy if you come away with bruises and bumps. Speaking of…” He nodded to the stairs and touched the letter in his breast pocket. “Is he up there?”

“No,” Abigail said, her smile fading a bit. “He practiced with us, then said he had to stop. He went for a walk.”

He frowned. The day had been warmer than the previous six, not to mention Thomas didn’t feel the cold as much as he, but still, it was near the middle of November. “In this weather?”

“He said he needed fresh air and that he wouldn’t stay out long.”

It had been months since Thomas had anything like a dizzy spell, though he still tired easily. “I’ll find him.”

“Argos is with him.”

“Then there’s no need to worry, is there?”

***

He took the north road.

There _was_ no reason for worry, he assured himself. After the conflict at Tugaloo, the war with the Yamasee and the Creeks had taken another turn and the tribes had scattered in the face of the new forts, the new army and the union of Cherokee and British forces. It had been months since he and Cameron had seen any sight of the Yamasee or the Creeks while on their patrols. Still, anything could happen out here and he found himself walking swiftly, almost running.

His worry, as it had to be, was for nothing. Along the bend where the woods gave over to a flat, brown marsh, he came across a familiar figure sitting under a winter-bare magnolia.

Fast asleep, Thomas was resting on the great coat they’d purchased the month before. His shirt was open at the throat and he’d taken off his neck cloth to use as a pillow. He’d been reading; a book lay open on his lap, an orange peel was coiled on his knee. Peter’s brown and black dog lay at his feet. The dog saw James and gave him a quizzical glance but didn’t raise its head.

Careful to walk softly, James closed the gap.

He stopped a few paces away, his eyes first going to the pale pink scar on the soft skin below Thomas’s clavicle.

Anger was too a poor description for what he’d felt when he’d come home from Norfolk last month to find Thomas on a chair in the salon covered in blood, rapier still in hand. Massey was standing above him, apologizing profusely while Abigail was trying to stop the flow with a small towel. James had ordered Massey to get the kit out of the kitchen, told Abigail to run for more towels and knelt before Thomas, snarling that they were _‘…done with real swords for once and for all, Thomas, and there would be no more fucking arguments on the subject!’_

His furious words would have made more impact if he hadn’t been shaking, almost ill as the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding and Thomas’s face was white from blood loss.

After patching Thomas up, James announced to all that he would be taking over every bit of the training until Thomas’s wound healed to his satisfaction. It did, though he hadn’t been able keep from spying on Thomas, afraid that the wound would re-open and Thomas would bleed to death before he could get to him.

Thomas found out, of course, catching James in an act of espionage while showing Abigail how to properly control a willful horse. Thomas had requested that Abigail take a turn around the pasture and then he and James had words. The argument was mild and short-lived, each making their points, each listening to the other. When James left for Norfolk the day after, he’d done so uneasily, wondering what he’d come home to in a month’s time.

Looking at Thomas now, he found little changed other than Thomas had gotten his hair trimmed; it lay against his skull in neat, gold cap. He remembered his thoughts of earlier in the year, how dismayed he’d been at the sight of Thomas’s dull colored hair, as if that one thing had been a barometer, measuring the state of his soul.

If that were the case, Thomas should now be happy and carefree, yes?

As if hearing his thoughts, Thomas stirred. He sighed and opened his eyes, unerringly finding James. “Finally,” he murmured.

At that smile, that low voice heard after lovemaking or upon waking, James dropped down, his own back to the tree.

“The ground is damp,” Thomas said with slight censure.

“As if I care.” He didn’t kiss Thomas or take his hand, though he wanted to do both. He settled for pressing the length of his arm against Thomas’s.

“Why aren’t you wearing your coat? You’ll get cold.”

“I have you to warm me.”

Thomas smiled at that. “I’ll warm you further, later on tonight. We all missed you very much. Even Argos.”

“He misses everyone the same, except for you,” James said, glancing at the dog that had still made no move to get up. “When you’re gone, he positively mourns. He doesn’t go out, doesn’t hunt. He won’t even leave the house.” Through the fine linen of Thomas’s shirt and the course cotton of his own, he could feel the hard muscle of Thomas’s bicep. “He has my sympathy as I share in his sorrow.”

Thomas snorted gently. “You mean to tell me that on the rare occasions when I go into town, you and the dog grieve together?”

He nodded and picked up the book, ensuring that his fingers brushed over Thomas’s thigh and hand, making Thomas smile. “We do. We lay on the floor and howl until you come home.” He held the book up to read the spine; it smelled faintly of orange. “Thomas More?”

“I’ve been rethinking my original opinion. Or rather,” Thomas added as he sat up, smothering a yawn. “I’ve been rethinking my rethinking.”

He gave the book back. “In what way?” Thomas’s neck cloth had fallen and he picked it up, giving it back to Thomas, as well.

“It sounds so pleasant. Utopia: where everyone is happy and gay and all is right with the world.”

“But?”

“It’s not real, is it?” Thomas said, looking around. “It’s the shell of a world based on one man’s opinions. The only way a true utopia could ever exist would be if everyone was equal, if everyone had a voice and lived in a place of safety.”

Because he couldn’t hold Thomas’s hand, he picked up a fallen magnolia leaf. The edges were brittle but the center was still soft. “I take it you went down to the village?”

“I did. I found no one and no thing. They’re not coming back.”

“You must have expected that.”

“Just because I know something, James, doesn’t mean I like it.”

He said nothing.

Thomas sighed and briefly touched his hand. “I’m sorry. I thought: it’s been a year, perhaps she brought them back. Perhaps I’d finally get the opportunity to thank her for taking care of us, for steering her people clear of the island.”

“They’re better off away from here, away from the soldiers and the forts.” It was the wrong thing to say and Thomas’s face darkened.

“You sound like Douglass.”

“He has some valid points.”

“We took their land, James! We are _taking_ their land!”

The dog raised his head and whined, looking at Thomas and then  at James.

Thomas stretched and stroked the dog’s ears; it settled back down.

It was a month’s old discussion that always gave way to arguments and he was tired of it. “What do you want me to tell you, Thomas? That it is not going to happen? That people will not come in droves? That the King will relinquish what is more valuable to him than gold?” When Thomas didn’t answer, he repeated softly, almost hopelessly, “What do you want me to tell you?”

Thomas dropped his head back against the tree trunk. “I want you to tell me that the New World can stay the way we found it. I want you to tell me that we are all capable of understanding and acceptance and that no one person is above another.” He turned his head and gave James a sad, self-mocking smile. “I want you to tell me a pretty story that ends with everyone happy and alive.” He hesitated, and then added evenly, “The rest of Miranda’s things arrived yesterday.”

A non sequitur that wasn’t and damn prying eyes, anyway. He dropped the leaf and took Thomas’s hand. “I wish I had been here.”

“I wish you had been, too. My reaction was quite unexpected given that it has been ten years since I last saw her.”

He examined Thomas’s palm, the elegant length of his fingers. How had he forgotten that the ship was due in this week? He’d arranged for the Nassau house to be closed, the goods to be ferried over on the _Intrepid_. He’d done so without thinking of anything more than the logistics but now it struck him: Miranda was gone and she was never coming back. No wonder Thomas had taken refuge in the only place he felt at ease. “Supper is almost on; do you want to stay here? I’ll bring it out to you.” He could give over the letter at that time, in case Thomas’s reaction was the same as his own.

“No,” Thomas pulled away. He brushed the orange rind to the ground and then bundled up his clothing and the book. “My bad day was over the minute I saw you. Besides, I’m sure you have news from London.” He stood, then reached for James’s hand.

He grabbed Thomas’s great coat as he let himself be pulled up, let himself be tugged too close, his body against Thomas’s for just a moment. And then they parted and turned to the path.

***

Supper was delicious, as always. Cameron had butchered a pullet and Mrs. Cameron made chicken stew topped with cornbread.

Early on in their arrangement, Thomas had managed to convince the Camerons that it was pointless for them to eat separately, saying that they were all part of the New World now, which meant a new order. After much hesitation, Mrs. Cameron agreed and now they took their meals together in the small dining room.

Part of this new order, Thomas had told Abigail and Massey, was that there would be no taboo subjects saving those that would give James away, that everyone would have the freedom to discuss whatever they liked. Tonight was no different—Thomas related the business of Charles Town, Abigail spoke of her meeting with a friend of her mother’s and James described the fitting of the hardware on the ship he and twenty other men were building.

Massey never had much to say but after waiting for the Camerons to finish and return to the kitchen, he piped up. The _Sovereign_ had anchored in the harbor, he said in a rush, only for a refit but should they be on alert?

“I don’t think you should spend your days at the Ship and Anchor,” Thomas said, “but I wouldn’t be concerned. They have bigger fish to fry.”

“Meaning they’re busy down in Florida with Teach and his crew,” James said. At Thomas’s inquiring glance, he added, “That’s the news out of Norfolk. Teach was seen south of Fort Caroline only a week ago.”

“Those pardons can’t come too quickly,” Thomas murmured. “What of Nassau itself? Have you heard from Miss Guthrie?”

He nodded. “Eleanor wrote that her business is thriving. Her second largest consignment of sugar shipped last week. We’ll see if it manages to make it to London unmolested, but I imagine she’s very happy right now.”

“And Mr. Scott?”

“He’s well. She asked him to return to her employ and he agreed.”

“And Vane?”

James shrugged. “She didn’t say; I haven’t heard anything. He might be keeping low until Rogers and the Navy leave in the spring.”

“Could it be that he’s waiting for the pardons to come through?” Abigail asked.

“I can’t imagine a pardon would motivate Captain Vane in anyway, considering.…” Thomas gave him a speaking glance.

He nodded. _Considering_.

Considering, Vane was a selfish bastard that would never ask forgiveness of anyone. He, himself, had been of that same breed not so long ago and he remembered throwing vague, angry words at Miranda; something to the point that he would keep going until England apologized to him. If he tried, he could still feel the heat of that anger, that outrage. If he tried.

“Any word in regards to Captain Hornigold?” Thomas asked evenly, eyes on his wine glass.

James wasn’t fooled and he finished the last of his cornbread and wiped his mouth. “Not as such,” he said firmly. “Apparently, he’s been encouraged by the Admiralty to give up his search for Captain Flint. I imagine that is because they’ve wearied of paying what has to be an exorbitant sum for very little reward.”

Thomas didn’t smile. He just nodded and said firmly, “Good.”

***

Supper over, James, Thomas, and Abigail retired to the drawing room while Massey left to meet up with Cameron for their nightly rounds of the estate. Massey taken to the role of guard wholeheartedly. James wasn’t sure if it was because he still felt indebted for the sanctuary of Wadmalaw or if he actually liked the job. Whatever the case, each time James had to leave for Norfolk, he breathed easier knowing that Massey was on the premises.

“James?” Abigail said.

He glanced up from the fire he was rebuilding. Thomas was opening one of the small side windows while Abigail was standing before the shelves under the pretense of making a decision of what book to read. “Yes?” he said, though he knew what was coming.

“With regards to Mr. Manderly—have you news?” Abigail asked.

He smiled. “How long have you been waiting to ask that?”

She colored but said with a spark, “Since you walked into the house, of course.” She selected a book and came to stand near the fire.

“James,” Thomas interjected, sitting down on the settee. The dog dropped down at his feet. “Don’t tease—tell her about Billy.”

He tossed a log onto the fire, then wiped his hands on his trousers.

When he’d been offered a six-month indenture at the Norfolk shipyard, he’d brought Billy along, expecting no complaint once Smith got a look at him; he hadn’t been disappointed and Smith contracted Billy on the spot. Billy had never worked as a carpenter but was quite good at it; that was, until his conscious got the better of him. Telling Smith that he was breaking the indenture and it couldn’t be helped, Billy left for England in September. “I haven’t received a letter, per se, but the _Great Allen_ left Bristol Harbor last month. They’re due to arrive in two weeks.”

Abigail’s face brightened, but all she said was, “I hope he managed to find his family. I hope he managed to talk to his father.”

“It’s a hard thing to confront a past gone wrong,” he warned gently. He was a case in point, but Abigail didn’t need to know that. He got to his feet and went to the side table for a drink. “Most men never find the courage.”

“Billy isn’t _‘most men.’”_ Abigail’s tone was sharp, firm. “If he is to make something of himself, he must find a way to forgive the people who wronged him and ask forgiveness for those he wronged.”

“You’ve been talking to someone,” he answered wryly.

“She has, indeed,” Thomas answered, reaching down to stroke the dog’s head. “What would you have advised?”

He thought it over. “It’s no good fighting Billy’s fights for him,” he said slowly, “but I suppose it’s a natural inclination when you care for another person.” Trying to decide between brandy and Madeira, he finally chose the latter; Thomas wasn’t fond of the former.

“I’d like to meet his parents one day,” Abigail said. “I can’t do that if they do not know that he is still alive.”

“Then, be patient,” Thomas said. “If he found himself unable to approach his father, you can decide then how to cope. Only…” He held out his hand and she came over and sat beside him. “Remember, society sees you as unequals; _he_ sees you as unequals. If you push him on this, you could upset the delicate balance for which you have been striving. Your letters to Norfolk had been bridging the gap, but they might not be enough. I believe he’ll learn to trust his feelings for you but patience is the thing required now.”

“You’re right,” she sighed, not unhappily. “Though patience is a hard thing to come by.”

James looked over his shoulder in time to meet Thomas’s gaze. Over the past six months, he and Thomas had their own hard time with patience. Being gone to Norfolk three weeks out of each month had tested them, in more ways than one.

“Practice,” Thomas said, still gazing at James, “in this case, will make perfect.”

Abigail sighed again. “I’m going upstairs to read Ovid for a while; I’ll practice while I read.” She stood up.

James shook his head. Both he and Thomas had been disappointed when Abigail showed no appreciation for Ovid. He’d wanted to read _Metamorphosis_ to her in an effort to change her mind but Thomas had said it might not do any good, given her continual state of discontent, adding that people liked what they liked and disliked what they disliked.

“Don’t stay up late; Mr. Cameron wants to leave by eight,” Thomas reminded her.

“I won’t.” She leaned over and kissed Thomas on the cheek, then turned to James. “I am happy you’re back. We missed you.”

“And I, you.” Abigail didn’t kiss him on the cheek; he didn’t expect her to—he wasn’t comfortable with expressions of affection and she somehow knew it.

He finished pouring the wine and waited until she was gone before sitting down on the settee. He handed a glass to Thomas. “Why are they going to town?”

“Mrs. Cameron’s birthday is next week and Cameron wanted Abigail’s help in picking out a gift.”

He tipped the glass, watching the fire’s reflection in the wine. “Did anything happen while I was gone? She seems quiet.”

“She received a letter from Peter’s solicitor.” Thomas crossed his legs and took a sip. “He’s given up trying to change her mind and is writing to her uncle in Kent.”

“Damn him.” Until that moment, he’d forgotten his own letter and it fairly burned his skin through the wool of his waistcoat.

“Wilson is only doing his best to protect her, James.”

“He’s an interfering old meddler who needs to mind his own business.”

“Her business _is_ his business.”

He sighed. “Thomas.”

Thomas nudged James’s shin with the tip of his shoe. “I’m sorry and I do know what you mean, though there’s nothing either of us can do about it. At least he hasn’t tried to visit again.”

James frowned. That had been a disaster and one he didn’t like to think on. He’d been so very angry at Wilson’s two-fold assumptions. He still couldn’t decide which was worse: Wilson’s accusation that Peter had willed the island to Thomas because Thomas had wormed it out of him in some nefarious way or the accusation that Thomas had taken Abigail under his wing because he had designs on her.

James had been disgusted and angered by both and hadn’t been able to hide his reaction. Cutting Wilson off short, he’d stood up and told him to leave the house and never darken their threshold again, the echoes of past anger coloring his voice.

Afterwards, he’d apologized to Abigail for his rash behavior and later on that night to Thomas in the privacy of their rooms. Thomas hadn’t said much other than James should have known better. Their lovemaking that night was quiet and subdued, leaving James to wonder how much anger Thomas himself had suppressed.

“So tell me,” Thomas said, clearly changing the subject, “what do you say to a very short holiday? I thought we might take Abigail on a trip to Savannah.”

He hadn’t been looking forward to this discussion and he couldn’t look at Thomas when he answered, “My ship leaves in three day’s time.”

Thomas stilled in the middle of taking another sip. “Three days? It’s always a week.”

He turned to Thomas; their knees touched. “I know. We’ve been making good time and finished before schedule; it’s why I missed the _Martin._ Smith wants her in the water by Tuesday.”

“James.”

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“I want you to see her; she’s beautiful.” Named for the new shipyard, the _Norfolk_ was their first three-master, complete with 70 guns and two decks; she would be, he knew, nimble and fast, able to outrun anything other than a schooner.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Thomas said. “I don’t want to push our luck.”

“Luck bedamned, Thomas,” he said harshly. “You haven’t been in months. You can have my room; I’ll billet with Harris or Ford.” When Thomas waivered, James pressed softly, “Please; I want you there when she sets out.”

“Then, yes,” Thomas said after a moment. “If you want it that much, I will go with you.”

They said nothing for the moment, giving James time to regret his insistence.

His indenture with the Norfolk Shipyard and its owner, Tam Smith, was predicated on the understanding that he be allowed to either leave after the first ship was finished or continue working as a paid employee.

He’d planned on the latter but now wasn’t so sure and it wasn’t just that Thomas missed him so much. In the last few months, every time he’d set sail for Norfolk, he found himself angry for no reason, filled with black worry for Thomas and concern for the farm—would their eldest cow deliver her new calf with no trouble? Would the section of fence that needed repair hold up another four weeks?

It took days to recover from his moods and he was beginning to think that the money he was to receive in a week’s time wasn’t worth it. “Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“When the ship is finished, my indenture is, too.”

“I know.”

Thomas had never pressured James into staying; he had, in fact, never mentioned it again after James had told him that he’d taken on an contract that might last as long as a year. He’d sat Abigail and Arthur down and told them that there would be a change in the household, and that was that.

Now, looking at Thomas’s calm expression, he realized that Thomas had been waiting for this moment and that he wasn’t sure what the decision would be.

He glanced around to ensure that they were truly alone, then reached for Thomas’s glass. He set both their glasses on the end table, then leaned forward and took Thomas’s hands. “I’m going to tell Smith that I’m done. When you return home after your visit, I’ll come with you. For good.”

“Are you certain? Mr. Smith could provide a good living for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m certain; I’ll find another way to make money.”

Thomas’s eyes shone and he squeezed James’s hands. “Let’s go upstairs.” He pulled free. “And then you can tell me of the letter in your pocket.”

Thomas stood up and turned to the door, the dog following, leaving James sitting there, feeling a startled fool.

***

Normally, the minute he got Thomas behind closed doors, he was on him in a moment. Making up for lost time, Thomas had said with a pleased laugh the first time it happened. Tonight, James went to the fireplace and threw another log on the pile, needing a moment to gather himself for what was to come.

Thomas, however, had begun to undress the moment the door was closed. First his neck cloth and then his waistcoat and shoes, the dog following his every move. He nodded to the chest that stood at the foot of the bed and said to the dog, “Go on, then.”

Argos wagged his tail and jumped onto the chest, circling around and around on the thick blanket to finally rest, curled up.

James didn’t sigh, didn’t object. He’d tried to in the beginning, stating the dog no doubt had fleas and other assorted bugs. In actuality, he was convinced the dog watched them while they were in bed and it had put him off. Thomas had ignored his suggestion that it was healthier for them both if the dog slept in the sitting room, his only concession being to banish Argos to the low chest.

“Now,” Thomas said, as he sat down on the sofa near the fire to remove his stockings. “Who is the letter from? I’m assuming it’s not Billy or Mr. Wilson, as you would have said.”

Thomas had thrown his waistcoat on the chair and James picked it up. “How did you know?”

“By my count you’ve touched your breast pocket four times and there couldn’t be anything in that pocket other than a note or letter, and will you please stop that?” Thomas said, one leg bare. “You’re not my valet.”

He laid the waistcoat on the tall bureau, not saying that he’d rather be Thomas’s valet than have clothing strewn about—he didn’t want to argue about that tonight.

“Come here,” Thomas said, his tone softening. He pulled off his other stocking and held out his hand.

James went to him and sat down, then drew the letter out. He stroked the thick vellum, his thumb covering the address from one Lord John Philpot, Duke of Herfordshire. “This came today,” he said, giving it to Thomas. “I saw the announcement at the harbor master’s office and thought it might be from Peter’s man in England.”

Thomas took the letter. “I take it wasn’t?” He opened it up, his expression changing as he read. He frowned and looked up. “John knows I’m alive?” Before James could say anything, Thomas sighed and leaned back against the sofa’s arm, saying absentmindedly, “Of course. John had given Rogers a copy of my proposal.” He tapped the letter on his thigh. “Rogers must have written to tell him of my situation. It completely slipped my mind.”

Thomas’s expression hadn’t changed and James’s anger and frustration—simmering ever since he’d read the letter—burst free. “And you didn’t think to tell me any of this?”

“Well, obviously not.”

“Thomas, he knows you’re alive!He’ll inform the King and the King will inform the Admiralty and the Admiralty will inform Hennessey!”

“I doubt that.”

“He will.”

“He might not.”

“I need you to take this seriously.”

Now Thomas’s expression did change and he straightened up. “Very well,” he said coolly. “You give me scenarios and I’ll tell you why I’m not worried.”

“All right,” James said. “Number one is that Philpot knows you’re alive.”

“No, he is inquiring after someone he once knew. He says very clearly in the letter that he heard from a source, one Woodes Rogers, that this acquaintance was still alive and living in Charles Town. He also writes that he’s unsure whether he can trust this source and is asking Peter’s factor for help in this area. That is the bulk of the letter.”

“What if he mentions it to Rogers?”

“Considering he writes very specifically that he doesn’t trust Rogers, why would he then ask for proof of the man’s veracity from the man himself?”

“And you think there’s no chance that the King will find out?”

“What if he did? George has much more to worry about than the doings of the disgraced son of a dead peer of the realm.”

James snatched the letter from Thomas’s hand. “That’s not all and you know it. The postscript says that your father’s will was never amended properly; you are _not_ disinherited.”

Thomas very carefully rolled his stockings into a ball. “I read and understood the postscript, James.” He placed the stockings on the sofa. “What is really bothering you?”

He looked down at the letter, at the beautiful script that had popped the golden bubble he’d been living in. “If there’s a chance to take back the title, will you return to London?”

There was no answer and he looked up. He’d seen Thomas truly angry only a few times, sharp moments where Thomas’s entire demeanor changed. Here was one more instance for Thomas was staring at him with bright, furious eyes, his mouth pressed tight in a line.

After a moment, Thomas said, “What do you think I’ve been doing here all this time? Why would you think I would _ever_ —” Thomas broke off and shook his head, taking a small sip of a breath. “No,” he said as if to himself. “No. I am not going to do this. I am not going to waste any moment of three precious days with you by reminding you that which you already know.”

It wasn’t quite a duel, the silent exchange as he stared at Thomas and Thomas stared at him. It was more of a parry, each evading the thrust not truly meant for anyone but people long dead.

With a sigh made great because of his relief, James nodded. “You’re right. I was being ridiculous. The chance that Philpot would ever find you here is slim and I know you’d never go back; I know you want to stay here with me.”

Thomas took the letter and dropped in on the floor and for once, James didn’t object. Let it lie there, he thought as Thomas leaned over to kiss him, let it be forgotten as the pointless thing it was. He stood, pulling Thomas with him.

He backed up to the bed as they traded kisses, letting Thomas undress him as he liked to do until he was wearing only his shirt, until it was his turn and then they were under the heavy covers. He stilled, head turned, because he was used to this, too, waiting for Thomas’s cool fingers on the nape of his neck as he untied his queue and threw the ribbon to the side of the bed.

He rolled to his back and held out his arms.

Thomas came to him and murmured, “Are you tired?”

“A little.” He wanted sleep and Thomas, by necessity in that order.

“Because I have something to tell you that should make you very happy.”

He pushed Thomas’s shirt up to stroke the curve of his lower back. “And what is that?”

“Do you remember I told you of my first experiences with the Camerons and how we became friends?”

It hadn’t been what he was expecting. “I do.” It had been incomprehensible to him that someone should distrust Thomas in any little way.

“I found out why they disliked me at first and why that changed.”

“And why was that?” Sleepy lust was changing his mind about the order of his wants; he might not be too tired for lovemaking, after all.

“They had a son, you see. A boy about Arthur’s age by the name of Jamie.”

“‘Had?’ What happened to him?”

Thomas pushed up to lean on one elbow. He reached for a lock of James’s hair and began to wind it around his finger. “He was a good boy, and smart. He wanted to go to London to learn how to be a physician. Cameron keeps a small portrait of the boy in his watch. Jamie had fair hair and blue eyes.”

“What happened?”

“The day after his sixteenth birthday when the Camerons were off buying a new cow, Peter’s man, Rhett, found Jamie in the barn with a neighbor boy.” Thomas glanced up at him. “I don’t need to tell you what they were doing.”

Lust, sleepy or any other kind, faded and he answered heavily, “No, you don’t. What happened?”

“Rhett beat both boys, taking his belt to Jamie—the other boy ran but Jamie couldn’t get away. Apparently, Rhett hurt him so bad that his back bled. Later on, when Cameron was searching for him, he found the boy’s torn and bloody shirt in the barn.”

Fury curled in his gut; he knew what was coming but he had to ask, “He ran, too, didn’t he?”

“He did. Rhett threatened to tell the town what had happened if he didn’t confess his sins to Peter. Jamie took a horse and fled. Rhett stayed at the house so he could inform the Camerons of what had transpired. He actually told them that he was going to find the boy to use him as an example and that there was no use hiding the truth from Peter as he’d know before the day was out.”

If he hadn’t had a good reason to hate Rhett, here was one. “What did Peter say?”

“He arrived the next day and told the Camerons that they were lucky that Jamie ran away else he’d be forced to imprison them. His rational was that Jamie was a sinner and if the Camerons had encouraged him to stay, they’d be sinners, as well.”

“That _fucking_ hypocrite.” He wanted to hit something. “I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad they’re both dead.”

“As much as I’m ashamed to admit it, those were my thoughts exactly.”

“What happened to the other boy?”

Thomas hesitated, then said softly, “He shot himself in the head but he did a poor job of it and was four days dying. The boy only had his father; apparently the mother was long dead. As soon as the father buried the boy, he left Charles Town in shame.”

He covered Thomas’s hand with his own. “Thomas.”

“It’s horrific, is it not?”

It was and he pictured the things he’d do to Rhett if he weren’t already dead. He cleared his throat. “Did Douglass look for Jamie?”

“He did. He traveled up and down the coast. He even went to Harbor Island and Eleuthera. He put up notices, asked at churches and taverns.”

“He never found him, did he?”

Thomas shook his head. “When he was on Eleuthera, he got word that a boy matching Jamie’s description was seen on a pirate ship bound for the Barbary Coast, but he never could confirm it as the ship was captured by your very own Captain Hornigold.” He lay back down.

“How did you find this out?” James said after a while.

“I was working on the stone fence with Cameron the other day. We were talking about you. I must have looked a little too forlorn because he said, quite out of the blue, that it was nobody’s business what went on behind closed doors and if God really minded, he’d strike all the supposed sinners dead where they stood and that included adulterers, thieves and papists.” Thomas rubbed his cheek against James’s chest. “That’s when he showed me the portrait and told me of Jamie. Very circumspectly, mind you, but still…”

Stunned, James could only clasp Thomas’s hand tighter. “Why didn’t they leave this house?”

“Because Jamie was born here. Before Peter was given the island, the Camerons had a home a half-mile from here. Their land was taken from under them and Peter gave them the option to stay on. I didn’t ask, but I’m assuming they didn’t want to chance missing the boy in case he came back. So you see, James,” Thomas added, his voice still too quiet, “you needn’t worry about them. They know and won’t make a fuss.”

He thought of all the times he’d held back from touching Thomas, afraid the Camerons would see. “The parallel is almost frightening.”

Thomas didn’t have to ask what he meant. “It is. Who knows what we would have done had we met when we were that young and then forced to renounce each other? It seems odd to say, but our age and experience were surely in our favor.”

James didn’t answer. He, sadly, knew what he would have done but he couldn’t imagine Thomas backing down or doing any kind of renouncing.

“James?”

“Yes?”

Thomas looked up. “Would there be any point in searching for Jamie? I was thinking Eleanor could inquire after him. Would that endanger you in any way?”

Thomas’s expression had gone from glum to hopeful and James didn’t have it in him to be completely honest. “It won’t put me in any danger, but Thomas, it might be well not to get your hopes up.”

Thomas smiled. “I won’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. It’s just that you don’t want to hurt me by being honest and saying it’s impossible, and I love that concern almost as much as I love you.”

James swallowed and reached up to stroke Thomas’s lips with his thumb. Trust Thomas to bring him to tears every damned time. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“The only way I’d be disappointed is if we didn’t do anything while we can.”

The words were too pointed, too direct, though Thomas didn’t realize that. “I’ll write Eleanor tomorrow.”

Thomas leaned up and kissed him. “Thank you.”

James returned the kiss and then they settled back down. “So that’s what made the Camerons change their mind about you?”

“Partly. Douglass let slip that they’d overheard some comments I made to a friend describing my relationship with Peter.”

 _‘Friend,’_ James thought but left it alone. His jealousy notwithstanding, Pastor Reynolds _was_ a friend of Thomas’s. Damn him. “And because they disliked Peter, they liked you?”

“‘Dislike’ isn’t the word I would use. ‘Extreme contempt,’ ‘active hatred’ would be more accurate.”

He smiled. “Good for them.”

Thomas snorted gently. “And now _you_ like them even more, don’t you?”

“I do. If I knew how to bake, I’d make them a pie.”

“Fool,” Thomas whispered lovingly.

“Only for you, Thomas.”

The fire snapped and spit and they both looked over at the fireplace. He should add another log but he was warm, he was safe, and Thomas was in his arms. He closed his eyes and sighed happily.

“Did you get a letter from Eleanor?” Thomas asked, after a moment. “She said she was going to write.”

“I did.”

“She wants to come for a visit.”

“I know.”

“What did you say?”

“That I would need to talk to you.” He opened his eyes. “What do you think?”

“As long as she comes without Vane, I’ve no objection. I’m looking forward to it, in fact.”

He nodded. “I was thinking she might help me with the book; she has information that I wasn’t privy to.” He’d thought the papers and book from the _Urca_ would hold some clue as to the pirates the Spanish had encountered but they were merely dates and lists of mining operations. “Her father supposedly kept records of all the pirates he’d run up against.”

Thomas smiled against his shoulder. “I think that’s a fine idea. Maybe she can convince you that your _nom de plume_ and the book’s title could use a little work.”

He grinned. Thomas so very much hated the name _‘Captain Charles Johnson,’_ but he liked it. It was a common enough name that no one would ever connect it to Captain James Flint and mundane enough to seem real.

The title did, he secretly agreed, need work. When he’d shown Thomas the first page, _The Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates_ , Thomas had snorted softly and pointed to the misspelled word, saying _‘Really, James?’_

He needed to refine the title, but he was going to keep the misspelling, if only as a hidden _damn you all_ to all his future readers who would no doubt exclaim in horror at the tales, all the while secretly yearning for more.

But he could hardly say that so he just murmured, “I’ll think about it, and now…” he said turning them over so that Thomas was beneath him, carefully keeping his full weight on the mattress and not on Thomas. He didn’t want to talk about books, Eleanor or their steward’s missing son. He kissed Thomas’s chin. “How have you been sleeping?”

“Well.”

He moved on to Thomas’s throat. “No more bad dreams?”

Thomas smiled and tipped his head back. “None that I recall.”

He frowned, not pleased by the answer but knowing by now to let it go.

The first time Thomas had woken him with a cry and a blow to his shoulder, he’d made a fuss, insisting that they not share a bed so that Thomas could get a good night’s sleep. Against Thomas’s objections, he’d bundled up his clothes and went to sleep on the sitting room sofa. Thomas hadn’t spoken to him all the next day. It was only while walking the farm with Cameron that night that he’d remembered, _‘what is best for you is me.’_ Later, he went upstairs to apologize, realizing only when Thomas was on him, making love as if to a piece of fragile glass, that Thomas hadn’t been offended, but worried that he might have actually hurt him.

He hadn’t raised the topic again, unsure what to say although there hadn’t been any more instances. That he knew of.

Thomas stroked his hair from his face. “James?”

“Yes?” he answered absently, wondering if Thomas would ever lie to him about the subject.

“Do you remember I mentioned a business idea in my last letter?”

Thomas’s tone was too even and he wondered what was coming next. “Yes? What is it?”

“Boats.”

James pushed up on one arm and frowned. “Boats?”

Thomas nodded. “You told me during your last visit that Mr. Smith already has orders for five new ships. I believe that if he can do it, we can, too. Of course, building ships are one thing but boats are another. Douglass put me in touch with a Mr. Davies, a Welshman who makes boats in Charles Town. I invited him to tea and quizzed him on the particulars. I thought it would be difficult but it sounds relatively uncomplicated.”

Thomas’s gaze became unfocused even as his voice quickened, “Our operation would be on a much smaller scale than a shipyard, of course. We’d need a new barn and a proper dock not to mention the raw materials. It’s getting harder and harder to find the right wood, according to Davies. It might be best to form some sort of alliance with smaller boatwrights to compete with the larger shipyards, but I’m convinced we can be successful. I related my idea to Cameron and he thinks it a good idea. He has a friend that is an overseer at a Massachusetts lumber mill and he’s sure he can convince him to work with us to provide the timber we’d need.”

Thomas paused, then looked up at James, a frown growing. “Do you think it a foolish idea? You obviously enjoy working on ships; I assumed a boat would be much the same thing.”

So used to Thomas’s ways, James had forgotten what it was like to hear him present an idea, creating something out of nothing, sparking the imagination like no other. He shook his head, then kissed the scar above Thomas’s clavicle. “No, I don’t think it’s a foolish idea; I think it a wonderful idea.” He took Thomas’s hand. “Have you thought where we’d get the metal fittings? Those can be as difficult as wood to come by.”

“Of course, I have. Davies has an idea about that, too.”

As Thomas began to expound on his idea, James listened, a picture growing in his mind of how it might be. He’d finish his book to bring in immediate income while Thomas worked on his treatise of the care of the mentally ill. Then, when they had the cash, they’d build the yard.

It would be small to begin with, their financial circumstances being what they were; after a time, however, they wouldn’t have to be so careful. Thomas could act as the public face of the business and no doubt Billy would want to be involved. When he got home, they could go out together and map the northern part of the island where the river ran deepest. It would most likely be the best place for the dock but they would test all possibilities, just to be sure.

Absently, he slipped his leg over Thomas’s and rubbed his cheek against his breast. His own boatyard. Where he could try out the new hull that Smith had said was a grand idea but too costly. Perhaps Eleanor could be brought into the fold—she’d been grousing about the quality of the ships ferrying her goods. A large boat was as good as a small ship, for her purposes. In his letter, he’d ask if she might consider a partnership.

He fell asleep that way, scheming and planning, listening to Thomas talk.


	7. Coda

Coda

_........................................_

 

This is the moment that Thomas remembers, long after the need for such memories is gone:

_It’s sometime around ten and he’s waiting for James to come to him._

_Strange, he’d been in this position before, in this same bed, only now he’s straining to hear the footsteps on the hall rug, the knock on the door, dreading neither. Nothing happens and he sighs and kicks off the covers._

_Earlier, James and Cameron had retrieved all the containers waiting by the river, though Thomas said to leave it for the morning. They’re probably still down there, opening everything up. Either that, or James isn’t convinced that distance and thick walls will keep Abigail from hearing them and is waiting until she is well asleep._

_Absently, he strokes his chest and looks around. The bedroom seems cavernous. Perhaps it’s because he’d been living in cabins and very small houses for over a month now. Perhaps, when he opens his eyes in the morning, it will all seem normal and not peculiar._

_He’s thinking on Miranda’s house, so calm and quiet, and Eleanor’s rooms that glowed gold and green when the knock comes. “Yes?” he says. The door opens and James stands at the threshold._

_Finally, he thinks silently. Finally._

_He sits up, heart in his throat._

_When James comes in, he doesn’t rush to the bed or any such thing. He’s carrying that long package, the one from Eleanor. He holds the door and then looks back out into the hall. “It’s all right,” he says. “Come.”_

_Thomas frowns, wondering what is going on when a dog slinks into the room, so low to the ground it’s almost on its belly. The dog seems familiar only he can’t place it. “Where did you find him?” At his voice, the dog’s ears prick up._

_“Cameron says he showed up a month ago—he wouldn’t leave so they’ve been feeding him. Abigail insisted we keep him. She even gave him a bath.”_

_“Poor thing,” Thomas murmurs, getting out of bed. The dog drops and tracks Thomas’s every move. “It’s all right,” Thomas says as he goes to the fire and crouches in front of it. He calls out, this time with a smile and a pat on the carpet, “Come here, boy.”_

_The dog slinks towards him but he’s looking up at Thomas with hopeful eyes; his tail begins to wag. Maybe it’s that but suddenly Thomas remembers. “This is Peter’s dog. He was here as a pup. He must have gotten lost during the attack on Charles Town.”_

_What’s his name?”_

_“I have no idea. The last I heard, Peter had never gotten around to naming him.” The dog is an arm’s length away still looking up with those questioning eyes and Thomas feels a little sick. The pup he remembers was so joyful, so full of life—what had happened to him to make him so fearful? He pats the rug again._

_“Careful, Thomas.”_

_“There’s no need for care, my dear.” The dog comes closer and then curls up next to him, resting at his side. Hesitantly, because contrary to what he’d just said, he doesn’t want to get bitten, Thomas lays his hand on the dog’s head. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and then again, “Good boy.” He strokes the dog’s head and then his ear, giving it a very gentle tug._

_As if a signal, the dog whines and presses firm against his leg, all lean muscle and fear. “Did you feed him?”_

_“Abigail did.”_

_He keeps his strokes even and slow. “Poor thing.”_

_“Cameron’s taking him into town tomorrow.”_

_He looks up. James is still by the door, still holding the package; he seems unaccountably angry. “What do you mean?”_

_“We’re not keeping him. We can’t afford it.”_

_“Of course we can.”_

_“Thomas—”_

_“James,” he interrupts calmly. “This house is a refuge and not just for us.” He pats his legs and the dog rises with another whine and crawls onto his lap. He cautiously wraps his arms around the dog and laughs when the dog tentatively licks his jaw. “He’ll earn his keep by acting as a guard. Maybe we can train him to watch the chickens. Cameron told me a fox has been at them.”_

_Growing up at Ashbourne, there had always been a hound or two around the house. There was a painting in the gallery of his great-grandfather with a dog much like the one now licking his fingers. “For now, he can sleep in the sitting room. Will you build up the fire so he won’t get chilled?”_

_“Very well,” James mutters and leans his package against the wall. “I expect you to change that nightshirt before I get into bed with you. He might have fleas.”_

_James stomps off and Thomas sighs. “What has gotten into him?” he asks the dog._

_The dog just lays his head on Thomas’s chest and whines._

_***_

_They install the dog on a blanket in front of the fire and leave him there. The dog doesn’t try to follow._

_“What happened to him, do you suppose?” Thomas asks. “Most dogs would at least scratch at the door.” He pulls the nightshirt over his head and tosses it on a chair. He doesn’t bother replacing it; if he has his way, they will make love and he wants nothing between him and James. “Was it Peter or his man, Rhett? Clearly, someone has abused him.” There is no answer and he looks over his shoulder. James is again by the door, holding the package; he’s unwrapped part of it and is frowning once more. “What is it?”_

_James looks up at him, but slowly, as if his neck doesn’t want to work._

_He goes to James, reaching around to close the door. He takes James’s hand and pulls him to the bed and gently pushes down. He sits besides James and touches the package. “What is this? Why are you so angry?”_

_James finally looks at him. “I’m not angry, Thomas. I’m—” He shakes his head and then gives Thomas the package. “Open it.”_

_Frowning, he takes the package and unwraps it though he really doesn’t need to—the minute he held it, he knew what it was. When the paper is gone, he holds it up. It’s an oar. It’s new and glossy and smells of varnish, but nonetheless, it’s just an oar. “Why would Miss Guthrie gift you this?” he asks. “Did she break one of yours?” What an odd thing to give someone._

_James reaches out and touches the blade, running his thumb along the dull edge. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out and he tries again, “Once upon a time, Eleanor asked me why I was doing what I was doing. Why here, why now? I told her the story of Odysseus and how after returning home, the oracle tells him to—”_

_Thomas lays his hand over James’s, stopping his words. He knows this, too, and he wants to weep for James, for himself. “And have you slain your enemies? Is your house in order?” He tries to smile. “Are you at peace?”_

_“Yes,” James whispers. “Yes, Thomas, I am at peace.”_

_James gives Thomas a look that burns his soul; any doubts he had about James returning to the sea are answered and thought triggers thought and he reaches over to his waistcoat, still at the foot of the bed. He’d placed the ring in the pocket for safe keeping while on the ship and it digs it out. He holds it up. “At the risk of sentiment, I think it the perfect time to return this.” With a wry smile, he takes James’s hand and slides the ring on his finger._

_They lean in as one, the oar between them. They kiss, then draw apart._

_Thomas pushes a strand of James’s hair behind his ear. James’s hair is so short but it will soon grow long enough to pull back in a queue and suddenly he remembers: James’s beautiful red hair secured by the black ribbon that fluttered in the light breeze, the smell of the sea air and the present bleeds into the past and he hears…_

_…the measured tread of boot heels on the white marble steps and a firm, deep voice asking, ‘Lord Thomas Hamilton?’…_

_That meeting had been such a surprise. Expecting an on-the-make officer, he’d found himself facing quite the opposite. Shrewdness charged with hidden humor, intelligence curbed by sterling integrity, all bound by a beauty that had made his heart quicken, James had been a revelation._

_Sending out a prayer of thankfulness for his life, for James, he pushes the oar aside and they fall together. Entwined in a stream of brown paper, entwined in each other, Thomas kisses James, again and again._

_fin_


	8. Notes

The Sundering Sea Notes:

 

**A few links used in research:**

http://www.etymonline.com/

http://classics.mit.edu/index.html

http://www.poetryintranslation.com/index.html

 

* * *

 

 

****Historical References:**   
**

Wadmalaw Island—Wadmalaw is a real island off the coast of South Carolina. It was claimed by England and the Lords Proprietors in 1666.

 

**The Yamasee War:**

The Yamasee War is considered a pivotal event during the formation of the United States. It lasted over two years and involved many of the eastern Native American tribes as well as the colonists. The reasons for the war were European trader abuses, slavery of the Native Americans, land encroachment and the reduction of the deer population by the Colonials. 

[Yamasee War on Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yamasee_War)

[Yamasee War (book on Amazon)](http://www.amazon.com/Yamasee-War-Conflict-Colonial-Southeast/dp/0803232802/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1440806320&sr=8-1&keywords=yamasee+war)

[Interesting book on sideline events of the 1700s](http://www.amazon.com/Independence-Lost-Lives-American-Revolution/dp/1400068959/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1440806320&sr=8-4&keywords=yamasee+war)

 

Many of the ships and people in the story are real although I’ve used them for my own purposes. Governor Hamilton was real as was one of the characters in a tavern that I never pointed out by name as he was just beginning his career as a pirate, Sam Bellamy otherwise known as Black Sam because of his long, unpowdered black hair.

Everyone probably knows about laudanum but briefly (and grabbed from Wikipedia), it’s an addictive narcotic that can cause, among other things: euphoria, dysphoria, respiratory depression, as well as psychological dependence, physical dependence. Overdose can result in severe respiratory depression or collapse and death. The ethanol component can also induce adverse effects at higher doses; the side effects are the same as with alcohol. 

 

* * *

 

**Chapter Quotes Attribution:**

The Lonely Sea-Girt Island, Homer, _the Oddesey_

The Watchman on the Morning,  _The Bible_

Three Dangerous Things  _Black Sails_

The Faith of a Demon  _Bede_

A Strange Pair  _Black Sails_

* * *

 

**Black Sails Specific Notes:**

 

The ages of James and Thomas, as I see them are:

James McGraw is 32 in 1705 and 43 in 1715 (due to birthday timeline)

Thomas Hamilton is 36 in 1705 and 46 in 1715

 

Timeline:

My head canon stretches the timeline a bit and follows thus:

  * James meets Thomas at the tail end of January
  * They become lovers in May, having had months to become friends
  * James leaves for Nassau at the end of June and arrives back home in August
  * Thomas is taken within days of James arriving (note the costume changes between scenes of James arrival and returning to the Hamilton house to find Thomas gone).



 

One funny thing about the 1705 London setting is that the year was particularly dry for London which means all that rain and mud wouldn’t have happened. It is, however, was a nice way to show the difference between the two times and islands.

The book James is writing is in reference to  _A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates._ The author, Captain Charles Johnston, considered a pseudonym, published the book in 1724. Some historians believe that Daniel DeFoe wrote the book, but there's no general consensus.

_Damnant quod non intellegunt:_ They condemn what they do not understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to SelenaK and Keiko Kirin for advice on the canon and Age of Sail info:)


End file.
